The Quest
by Angel of Mystery-145
Summary: 1871- It was all either of them ever wanted, to share in a life abundant with their music & love. She only hoped their chosen quest would not become their dying finale." E/C *some fantasy* strong sexual situations - based on 2004 movie
1. Haunted Memories

_**Let your mind start a journey through a strange new world, leave all thoughts of this tale you knew before...**_

**This is a story sequel based on a deeper story I saw in the 2004 movie through symbolism there - To follow, imagine the opera house was an opera kingdom, Erik a an actual ruler there (called king), and the incarnation of Music, Christine his intended queen, and the true "Phantom" an evil spirit out to destroy everyone, through Erik and _including_ Erik. To see why I came up with this, the link to a PotO forum - including hundreds of screencaps, etc, showing symbolism from movie, is in my profile. All of what they did seemed to reveal a deeper story, a high fantasy, including Erik finding his dream with Christine. Not asking you to believe it- just showing where I got the idea to write my story as I did. :)**

**Yes, my story is different, but sometimes different can be intriguing ...**

**PLEASE NOTE: you don't have to go to that link to understand my story. I tried to make it clear through backstory, though it is only my interpretation of how it pieced together (using symbolism they did). I'll include at end of some chapters "trivia notes"- showing a bit of symbolism we found, just a small taste, for anyone interested.**

**My story is sometimes dark, sometimes angsty, sometimes fluff, sometimes light, having many facets to it. E/C pairing, based on characters in movie. All characters have both good and bad traits and have to grow and learn. Some sensuality. M rated for a few chapters. All usual disclaimers apply – I don't own the Phantom, the music, etc, though all original songs are mine.**

**Please feed my review hunger - it is _alway_s appreciated. :) Thanks!**

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**xXx**

**Chapter I**

**xXx**

**.**

_Chriiii-stiiiiine ..._

With her heart pounding, Christine halted on the path. Stunned, she glanced over her shoulder then fully turned to look behind her.

The statuaries that crowned the cold graves returned her searching stare, their eyes gray, vacant. The tall iron gates remained closed, as she had left them. Once more the burgeoning flicker of hope died within her. Once more she'd only imagined her deepest desire.

Desolate, she continued along the winding path. A discord of questions clamored for recognition, each seeking command at the forefront of her thoughts:

_Why had he not come to her? Why had he not answered her pleas? _

_Where **was** he...?_

Sometimes, when all stood silent, she thought she heard him beckon to her mind in a whisper, like now. Yet he'd never come forward, and she felt she must be going mad….

One month had passed, and a lonelier four weeks she'd never suffered, apart from those cheerless months without him when she lived at the opera house. Had he not understood her silent message? Did he not see?

But no, he must have known! She had _seen_ _him smile_, his lip curled at one corner - not with sarcasm, not in contempt, but with awe. Disbelief had glimmered in his moist eyes when she laid her ring in his palm, wrapping his fingers around the band to which she still clung. Unable to speak, she'd held his hand with promise, wanting to stay forever but knowing she must go. The mob had sought her capture as well, and though he had commanded her to leave, she returned to beg him to follow, to stay with her each night and each morning.

It broke her heart to leave him there, so alone, but she thought that he had understood her message when she'd sung to him, answering his earlier proposal on the Don Juan bridge, taking up the words where he had left off. Surely he also understood Raoul's pledge to serve and follow, if the king willed it…a king that reigned over music, no longer in possession of his opera house kingdom, all of it destroyed…but always he would remain her Angel. Not an angel of spirit … but bearing the mortal flesh of man.

She had learned the truth four months ago, and it still staggered her mind.

Her attention lifted to a different angel, one of chill marble and not fiery blood and hard sinew. Its gray, lifeless wingtips were spread wide, its stone hands lifted in supplication. One of few in the cemetery without a veil, it stared at her with empty eyes.

Was her Angel also blind?

She touched the monument's cold stone robe, remembering the heat of skin. Again imagining being held in his strong arms, his heart pounding against her, his hands caressing her body, his breath warm on her neck. The kisses they later shared stunned her, moved her beyond anything she had ever experienced or imagined.

"How could you have doubted me?" she whispered. "I gave you all I had. Even when I felt I could give no more, I never stopped giving, never stopped coming to you when you asked it. Have you so soon forgotten me? _**Have you…?**__ How could you?_" Her last plea came in a tortured whisper.

Moisture dampened her lashes, and Christine brushed the wetness away. She had thought the bitter well inside her soul would have bled dry by now and gave a short laugh devoid of humor at the pitiful wretch she'd become.

She could not feign innocence. No. She, too, tasted her portion of blame. If only she would have approached that night differently instead of pulling his mask away, and damning them both to this bleak existence…

She had failed her Ordeal by Fire when she'd shown preference for him on the Don Juan stage. Withholding nothing, she admitted through covert actions that her Angel would understand that she wanted no part of their conspiracy, that she'd been forced into the horrid test of endurance to determine her innocence or guilt. Despite the danger, at the shock of seeing him walk onstage she'd been unable to refrain from singing what he longed to hear, what she'd yearned to tell him for months. Encouraged, he broke from the opera to propose, pleading for her help in leading him from his dark imprisonment, both of them realizing that though she'd been willing to enter his nighttime world to be with him, it was impossible for her to leave the light.

With her eyes full of tears, she responded so he would know what course he must choose for a union to be possible. She had removed his mask to show that he must emerge from hiding behind the Phantom, the dark spirit that caused such havoc in the opera kingdom, but also she had done it to prod his escape, the soldiers so close with their guns- one standing at their level, near the very edge of the bridge! Her eyes had begged for understanding, but he'd misread her action. Again. Then all pandemonium had broken loose while the dreaded soldiers gave chase.

"Oh, where have you gone, Mon Ange?" she entreated softly, scanning her dismal surroundings. As a last resort she had come here, hoping she might find him, as she had the last time she had visited this eternal dwelling of souls forgotten. Such hopes now seemed foolish. He must have truly forgotten her. But how could he ...?

_How **could** he?_

Without him, her music had died. She could no longer sing, no longer wished to. He _was_ her music. Had he not told her she was the same to him? Had he not sung those last parting words that had given her such hope?

Angry with herself, with him, with the world, Christine brushed away another tear.

The essence of music coursed through his veins, his very lifeblood. He had created her into a part of himself and, little by little, his absence drained her of life, of all hope that he would return. At least, those three months without him at the opera house she had known he was there, somewhere hiding, beneath the floors, beyond its walls….

The wind chilled her face. If not for its bite stinging her cheeks, she might think herself dead. As hollow and bleak as the statues that lined her path, or those silenced mortals who lay beneath.

What sins he had committed she had forgiven, though no one else had and he was still prey to the relentless gendarme. Covering her face with her wrap lest she be recognized, she had visited the newsstands daily but no word of the Phantom of the Opera's capture had screamed from the headlines.

A week after the fire, Raoul grudgingly honored her persistent requests to take her to find her Angel. Poor dear Raoul. She never meant to hurt him either.

When they reclaimed the boat used during their escape from the burning theater, and reentered the maze of passages leading deep into its bowels, into the lair, she discovered her Angel had vanished. Mirrors were smashed; shards of glass littered the ground. Nowhere, a sign of life. Even the candles had guttered themselves out, useless puddles of molten wax, and the torch Raoul carried had been their only means to see.

Her despairing gaze had found the music box with the toy monkey holding the cymbals. Such bittersweet torment swept through her now as it had then, again to remember the last time she'd been with her Angel. There, at the foot of the Phoenix bed, he had sat and sadly crooned to his music box like a child. The years had fallen away from his face, his countenance youthful, uncertain. She had never seen him so vulnerable, and her heart twisted again to remember him so utterly broken.

She had watched for some time before he discerned her presence—her gaze feasting upon his lean form, his unmasked face, which had long ceased to be a disturbance. There was so much good in him, so much beauty. She had told him the true distortion deceived his soul, and it had…

In the guise of the Phantom spirit.

With her nails biting into her palms, Christine crossed her arms over her waist. They had both been deceived by that spirit from hell, and she felt foolish for not realizing it sooner. Perhaps if she had, that night would never have occurred, the opera house would still be functional, and she would have her Angel with her again, the same as always.

"No, not the same as always. What's done is done. It _needed_ to be done."

The firm words that she uttered to deaf stone ears felt as empty as her heart. She chanted them often during the bleak hours, trying to find a measure of comfort when the past reared up to haunt and accuse.

Reaching her father's mausoleum, Christine looked up wide stone steps to the gate, remembering another time, not so long ago, that seemed an eternity away. If Raoul had not come charging through this cemetery on the morning she almost reunited with her Angel, where would they be now? Probably as enmeshed in the dark spirit's black net as before, seeking and desiring to be with one another without expectation of ever attaining that hope. If there was any hope left.

The tears helplessly rolled down her cheeks, and she sank to the ground, clutching the upper stair's edge. Pressing her forehead against her sleeve, she shut her eyes.

"Father, help me to live, to want to live." Her plea came out in a hoarse whisper. "I feel so lost without him. Why did you bring us together, if only to tear us apart? The days are endless, and the nights are steeped in misery. I dare not sleep, because if I do, I'll dream - and he'll not be there singing so sweetly to me. Please God, let the past just die if the future must be filled with such terrible emptiness! I cannot bear this cross any longer."

_Christine, where is your strength?_

The gentle challenge soared through her mind, borne on the wings of heavenly inspiration. Startled into silence to hear an answer, she hesitated with her reply.

"I have no strength left."

_You were destined to be a queen. Draw upon what you have learned; do not forsake the Light._

"I have never done that." A twinge of guilt troubled her conscience at the memory of how once, she almost had, and in this very place. She raised her head from her outstretched arm, her words now resolute. "I never shall."

_Then rise to your feet. Be strong, be courageous, as your forebears were strong and courageous. Much is expected of you ... Do not lose faith, Christine ... Christine ..._

_Chriiii ... stiiiine ..._

As she moved to stand a lingering fragment of song whispered past on the voice of the wind. Or was it all in her mind? Had she truly gone mad?

She closed her eyes in bittersweet reflection, feeling her body sway with the lyrical whisper. Even if she only imagined this, to hear him again in remembered thought soothed the hollow ache like nothing else could. It was…

No.

This was not her imagination.

She _felt_ his presence, stronger than any night since she'd left him. Her eyes opened wide, her lips parted. Her ears attuned to the beauty of this new, familiar voice, as the last note drew out and played a sweet symphony within her hungering soul.

She turned, hardly daring to believe her dream achieved reality.

Not thirty feet away, near the split tree, a tall figure stood in the obscure mist that swirled around his cloak. A hood concealed his face.

**xXx**

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**A/N: Thanks for giving my story a chance! :)**

A bit of Trivia from Hidden Plot forum: the actual symbolism (widely accepted definitions from sites and books we looked at) of things we researched into:

Ordeal by Fire ("Raoul, it scares me- don't put me through this ordeal by fire.") - was a true test in historical accounts reserved for members of nobility and high rank (such as a queen would be forced to undertake). It was used to determine the innocence or guilt of the accused- who was made to walk across an area 9 feet in length (approx. size of bridge in PONR) over hot ploughshares (the sharp blades of fire of fire pit beneath bridge in PONR). If they made it through without injury, they were considered innocent; if not, they were guilty.

Masks in symbolism refer to spirits, and it is said the person who wears the mask takes on the personality of the spirit it represents. In theater, a black mask (symbolism) means an evil villain set out to destroy (in this case, phantom spirit) and a white mask (symbolism) means a cruel ruler (how Erik was to all his subjects in opera kingdom).

Cloaks are a symbol of protection. (i.e. the black-lined cloak that suddenly reappeared as Erik walked across bridge though he had tossed it off- also the cloak suddenly changed color of lining from gold (one of king's two colors- the other is red) - to black (Phantom spirit's color) 3 times in movie, when the evil spirit took control -

1) in POTO- "My power over you is stronger yet" (and just for a few lines- this being the only time she showed anxiety, by looking over her shoulder)

2) the entire time he chased and killed Joseph Buquet. When Erik went into that upper room and closed the two doors, the lining had been gold then.

3) when he vowed revenge as he stood atop the statue on roof. Lining was gold before he got there, when he ran to statue- turned to black when it fluttered about him in the wind.

The number 3, in all instances of movie, related to something evil about to occur or the presence of evil there- with 3 candles suddenly lit in a scene (when before those same candles in candelabrum only had 4 or only 1 lit in same scene)- the lyrics used when "3" was stated- i.e.: number of months before he returned (in Masquerade, which was changed in the libretto from 6 months to 3 months for movie- "three months of Elysian peace- and we can breathe at last. No more notes, no more ghost ..."), Act 3- where Christine sang in Hannibal, (other hints of evil were there) and the ballet in "Act 3"- at which time JB was killed... 3 roses changing from black back to red repeatedly during key points of her song during her walk in cemetery, and much, much more.

More trivia to come...

I'd love to hear from you, either about what we found or my story; please review. :)


	2. Dearly Beloved

**Chapter II**

**.**

Christine could not breathe.

The cloaked figure retreated a step, partly vanishing into the thickening mist.

"No- wait!" Startled into action, she raised her hand and stepped forward, then stopped in sudden apprehension. "Who … who are you?" Her words came stilted, scarce with the hope it was him and the fear that it wasn't. She prayed that this was not yet another hollow dream conjured by the desires of her heart and performed within the workings of her mind.

She had waited so very long…

Empty silence once more threatened to bury her deep within its dark abyss, to rise up and call her mad, and then -

"_Have you forgotten your An-gel_?"

The silver tones of music beckoned, chiming softly across the bracing air. She stared, unable to move, unable to think, unable even to sing into his mind as he'd taught her. She forced her trembling legs forward one step. Another.

_Can this be real?_

Likewise, he took a halting step in her direction then stopped as if undecided.

The fog of disbelief scattered from her mind.

_You are with me ..._

_Truly with me ..._

Giving a harsh sob, she clutched her cumbersome skirts and swiftly covered the distance between them, flinging her arms around his shoulders. She heard his surprised gasp when the force of her joy almost unbalanced them both. She had no further regard for the dictates of propriety. Rules and conventions seemed foolish under such circumstances. Never again would she pretend a reserve she didn't feel.

Pressing her cheek to his shirt, Christine felt the steady, rapid thuds of his heart beating. Her first time to embrace her Angel, though he had yet to lift his arms and hold her. He felt so solid, so strong, so ... real. Not a dream. _He had_ _come to her!_ With a joyful smile, she twisted to look up at him through her tears.

_NO…_

Her breath caught in distress. Impulsively she took a step back and lifted her hand to the despised mask covering the right side of his face. His hand stopped hers before she could remove it, his grip firm in warning.

"I have broken its power over my life; the darkness is gone. It is nothing more than a mask, Christine."

"No, it's more," she whispered. "Please, Mon Ange. Let there be no more obstacles between us. Especially not _that_ _one_."

His hold remained hard around her wrist. "You don't understand what you ask of me."

Oh, but she did. She wanted him to trust her not to malign this one weakness he had permitted to mar his strength. To have faith that she wouldn't trample his aspirations, which she felt confident they shared. To renew his trust in her that she would never again emotionally injure him. She'd never meant to; she'd only done what she felt she must. But oh, how she had wounded him! The remembrance, the realization, tore at her heart.

His smoky green eyes mesmerized, but at the same time observed her, wary, uncertain.

_Be strong, Christine. Much is expected of you…_

Memory of the silent edict produced within her a fount of needed assurance. In one manner, she had always been able to reach him.

Lifting her voice softly in pure notes that both beckoned and pled, she sang. "_Angel of Music, cease your hiding ... draw near to me, sweet Angel ... Angel of Music, do not forsake me ... place faith in me, dear Angel ..."_

His eyes sparked to life when she began to sing then dulled with weary resignation as she brought her plea to a close. He loosened his hold, finally dropping his hand from her wrist. His gaze remained steady, alert, watchful.

Her heart beat in staccato as she touched the brittle edge of his leather mask. He stiffened, but this time did nothing to prevent her from peeling away the disguise. The covering fell, to blend with the frozen snow.

Hungry for the sight of him, Christine snatched away his hood to study every inch of his face, couldn't help but notice the awful dread that darkened his eyes, as if he was convinced she would now pull away in horror. _Still_ he thought his face could poison their love? It was only skin. The side of flawlessness was handsome, indeed, but the side of imperfection was equally dear. For if he'd not suffered as a boy, he never would have escaped to the opera house to live. She would have missed knowing this Angel, this man, who'd sung such comforting words to her as a child and acted as a father, a friend, a protector ...

And now, he was so much more. Knowing some of what he had suffered, she could understand why her acceptance of him was difficult to grasp, and she anticipated a shared lifetime ahead to prove her love. If he would allow it…_please, God,_ let him allow it…

Her silent prayer filled her heart as with care, she cradled his face in her hands and drew his head down to kiss the malformed skin. The salt of his tears wet her lips. Her own tears joined his as she tenderly pressed her lips over his eyelids, his temples, his other cheek until at last her mouth brushed his own.

His breath came shaky, warm. Her heartbeat quickened with need.

Her mouth tentatively opened under his, urging him inside. A tense moment passed before at last he took the invitation. Christine's soul sang while her body grew warm. The force of their kiss strengthened as they drank of one another, the nectar sweet and satisfying, their kiss growing deeper and begging for more. When they parted for the need to breathe, she stared at him in amazement. Each kiss shared, since the moment her lips first touched his in the lair, was more soul shaking than the last.

She read the same revelation in his eyes that glistened with tears. His mouth trembled and curled into a smile, the smile she so cherished. Christine brushed her fingertips against it.

"Never again doubt my love for you," she whispered. "It is as powerful as the sun that warms us. I will always be yours, Mon Ange, as you are forever mine." Her final word a breath against his mouth, she again drew close, the pull to him stronger than anything she'd known, any barrier that existed ...

At last his arms moved to embrace her and crush her to him. She whimpered, exulting in his strength. Time ceased to exist, and when he suddenly pulled away, she felt far removed from the present world. Slowly she opened her eyes…

Despair had entered his own.

"I am a wanted man, Christine. Without a place to lay my head."

"Is that what kept you from me?"

His nod was slight as he averted his gaze to the frozen ground. "Before, I had a life to give you, a life suitable for a queen. Now I have nothing. My kingdom has fallen by my own hand. I have nothing, I am nothing."

"That's not true!"

She grasped his sleeve, fearful he was again slipping away from her. "You are everything to me and always will be. Together we'll build a new life."

"How is that even possible?"

The anguish in his eyes brought fresh tears behind hers. She knew a little of his past. For twenty-two years her Angel had known nothing but a secluded existence at the opera house, forced by others' cruelty to hide when he killed the gypsy who caged him. He had relied on the Phantom for guidance, though that spirit had deceived and almost destroyed them both. If the gendarme found her Angel, they would shoot him like a wild dog or mercilessly hang him by the neck with a rope. She felt certain of it; she'd seen how they tried to hunt him down with guns once they'd seen his face at the opera.

"We'll go to Spain." The words flew from her lips before they'd been born of thought. Yet the astonishment that widened his eyes fueled her resolve. Remembering his drawings, she continued, "The Festival of Lights will soon be underway. La Feria." Her words took wing, becoming more real to her. "We go there to hide, make a life for ourselves until it is again safe to return to France. If ever we return."

Raoul would help them escape. He had pledged his allegiance to them both. But she dared not mention his name, not yet. She sensed the tide of bitterness had not fully turned aside for either man.

"I cannot ask you to run with me, Christine. Never again to enjoy a normal existence. It is why I freed you that night, that and to protect you ..." He stepped away from her, offering her his unyielding back. "You would do well to forget me, as I told you then."

Shards of pain pierced her heart and a wave of her earlier distressed anger returned at his apparent dismissal. "Is that why you came here today? To tell me to forget you...? _Is it?"_ she insisted when he didn't speak.

"I could not stay away," he admitted, his voice empty, tired. "I had to see you again, if only from a distance. This is not the first time I have watched you from afar."

Christine inhaled a breath at the sudden defeat in his manner, at his words tinged with sorrow, and her anger just as swiftly diminished. So she _had_ felt his presence before this! The knowledge gave her the needed assurance that they both desired the same thing, and she moved to stand before him.

"Though you may have only watched me before this, today you sang my name and made your presence known to me." Her reminder was soft.

He closed his eyes as if it hurt to look at her, a nerve in his jaw flickering. "Yes."

"And yet again, I have come to you, as I have always come to you. As I always shall."

She took his left hand in both of hers, bringing their clasped hands to her heart. Feeling the ring she'd given him circle the middle of his finger, she smiled. "You're not asking for my life, dear Angel. I give it to you. Freely. My life is nothing without you by my side."

His eyes intently searched hers, seeking truth. She prayed he would see the sincerity there.

"Nine years you have taught me and been my master, my strength; now, let me be your strength while you rediscover your own. And you will, because that is the manner of man you are."

She did not doubt her words. Despite the existence of hardship that plagued him, he'd risen above it to share his creative genius with the opera kingdom in the only manner he knew while trapped inside darkness. Even that did not prevent him from reaching out before the Phantom's influence distorted his efforts. Yet those black days were behind them now…they must be.

No life was without difficulties, and they'd already survived so much. In recalling the special times they experienced when he was fully her Angel, and yet, a man, she knew the joys ahead would be immense. The vision of their future together left her breathless, eager to be bound with him by name and become one with him in body.

"I know you only as my Angel of Music and you shall always be that," she said, willing her heart to slow. "But if we're to begin a new life together, you must have a new name."

His eyes were dazed by her revelations. "When I was a boy, before I came to live among the gypsies, I was called Erik. It is the only name I know as my own."

From a discarded memory of a tale her father once told her, the meaning of his name came clear.

Erik ... ruler over all ... king.

How fitting.

She kissed the knuckles of his hand still curled between hers. "You have chosen to come into the light…Erik..." She tested his name on her tongue, thrilling to the sweet sound. "Now let me show you how to walk and live in _this_ world. Let me be the one to lead you until you regain your footing." Still holding his hand in both of hers, she moved backward, persuading him to move forward, with her.

_"Complete me, stay beside me; our love will warm and guide thee ..."_

Her heart lifted to see that hope had been reborn into his expression.

_"...Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime ... let there be no further solitude ... say you want me with you now and always ..."_

"Christine ..." His whisper was hoarse, yet his eyes burned her with their need.

She came to a halt–_ "Anywhere, you go let me go too ..."_ –and watched as he took the final step, closing all remaining distance between them.

_"Love me, that's all I ask of you..."_ Their voices blended in soft accord, an offering to one another of pure devotion. Drawing close, they met in a tender kiss, then stepped back, both hands clasped in one another's.

_"Angel of Music, I adore you ... I sing only for you, my Angel ..." _Their voices lifted in triumph, ringing through the air. _"Angel of Music, dearest companion ... evermore will I love thee, my Angel ..."_

_"I am your Angel of Music,"_ he ended quietly, again drawing close and tracing his knuckle against her cheek in wonder.

Heart full, she grasped his hand. She turned her face into it and deposited a kiss on his palm, along with her heartfelt promise. _"As I forevermore am yours."_

"Marry me," he whispered, both a command and question.

"Yes…" she gave him her unwavering answer.

He grabbed her to him and held her tightly, as if afraid she would vanish if he let go...

A sudden cold wind came out of nowhere, beating against them. Apprehension flickered inside Christine, attempting to steal her bliss, but only for a moment. She had her Angel with her again…she had _Erik_...

Nothing else mattered.

**xXx**

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here, in the sight of God, to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony ..."

Before the blind priest could continue the sacred rite, the door to the tenement burst open.

Prepared to deliver a quiet rebuke to her daughter for her tardy arrival, when haste was most crucial, Madame Giry only stared in confusion as she heard Meg bar the door.

Meg's face shone pale, her eyes overbright with terror as she rushed into the small candlelit parlor scattered with arrangements of fragrant red and white roses. She carried no bread for the fugitives, the sole reason Madame had sent her to the baker.

"What is the matter, chère?"

"The gendarmes! They are coming!" Meg swung her gaze to Christine. "I'm so sorry. We told no one, but somehow they must have discovered his location."

"Is there time to finish the ceremony?" Christine asked, a plea in her voice as she sidled closer to the man who stood moments away from becoming her husband. He slipped his gloved hand from the middle of her back to her waist, gathering her to his side. His eyes shrewd and watchful, he remained silent as he, too, awaited Meg's response.

"They have turned onto the street and are coming this way. Can you not hear them?" Even as she asked, the muffled sound of boots striking stone and marching in unison came closer. "I fear they will be here at any moment! It appears as though an entire legion of soldiers has come. _An entire legion!_ Mon Dieu! What will we do, Mère? They surely have come to arrest the king!"

"King?" The old priest asked. "Napoleon the Third has been reinstated to his throne? The Prussians have attacked the city?"

Madame shot a warning glance to her frantic daughter. "Non, Père, my daughter misspoke." She addressed Meg. "We will do what we must." Her rigid whisper brooked no further outburst. "Margarette, remain here with the good Father." Madame took hold of Christine's cloaked arm and grabbed a nearby candelabrum. "Both of you come with me quickly."

She hurried with them to her bedroom and the transom window that led to the alley. With her Maestro's aid, she pushed her heavy trunk to block the door. Her heart constricted with sorrow to see the disappointment and anxiety etched on Christine's white face, and Madame gave her a swift hug of reassurance. She thought of her as a daughter and would have deemed it a privilege to see her married to the displaced King of Music.

A fortnight before, he had confided to Madame the name with which he'd been christened; but she'd spent nearly a lifetime in his service, addressing him by one title or another, and found she could do no differently now.

"Maestro, I will do all I can to detain them. The driver must have spoken or the boy who hired him." She dragged a chair the few feet needed to stand before the window. "It is no longer safe to travel by wagon. The gendarmes may see you attempt to reach it. You must travel on foot. Take the back streets out of the city to the rendezvous point of which I spoke. There, the Vicomte will find you and lead you on the rest of your journey."

At mention of the Vicomte de Chagny, his jaw tensed, and Madame sensed his intense displeasure with the plan, but he gave a curt nod of agreement.

"Christine …" His expression somber, his eyes shone ghostly green in the dim light from the candle's flames. "I cannot allow you to come with me. It is far too dangerous. You must stay here with Madame Giry, where you will be safe. Give a false name should they inquire. Your face is not widely recognized, but no other mortal in the city wears such a mask." Only those dwelling within the opera kingdom had seen and heard what they took for Christine's betrayal, while all within Paris sought the masked man renowned as the legendary Phantom of the Opera.

Christine's mouth parted in disbelief. "You cannot be serious - to think after all we've been through together, after the time we were forced to part, that I would desert you _now_?" With swift decision, she stepped up onto the chair and twisted the window's lever, pushing open the pane. She looked down at him, her gentle eyes beseeching. "Once before this we escaped a mob and we can do so again, Erik. Together, this time. Never again apart."

He stared up at her, concern and amazement softening his features not concealed by the half mask. Only with Christine had Madame Giry seen him alter from the formidable Opera Ghost, who incited fear in the weak-hearted, to the most gentle of all men. She could not discount the all-consuming love he frequently displayed toward his protégé, a love she saw equaled in Christine's bright eyes. He had suffered a fate undeserved toward any man. If anyone could save him from himself and open his eyes to truth, so that he may at last know happiness, it would be the fearless woman he had chosen for his bride.

A pounding shook the door in the other room. Muffled shouts demanded entrance.

"You must go!"

It was rare that Madame must persuade the Maestro to act, but he seemed to waver in a trance of indecision.

"Please, my Angel." Christine held her hand out to him. "I cannot leave you again, don't command it of me. I know what dangers we face and I wish only to remain with you, always, as I should have done that night. Then, perhaps, we would not be running for our lives. I am in as much danger as you are. If any of the gendarmes were at the opera house that night and should recognize me, they will see through the lie of a false name."

Madame did not fail to notice how he rapidly blinked away a film of moisture that had risen to his eyes at Christine's avowal of loyalty to him.

"Very well." His voice was husky.

He helped Christine through the window, gripping her wrists as he aided her to the ground. With the nimble ease and grace of a nocturnal creature born to the wilderness, he then leapt to the window. Once seated, the soles of his boots planted on the ledge, he turned aside, his gloved hand gripping the wall above him. His cloak trailed downward in shimmering satin folds. As always, the powerful presence he exuded took Madame's breath away.

"I will send word, when it is safe to do so. Au Revoir, Madame."

He vanished swiftly, as if he'd never been there.

Tears of worry and regret choked Madame's throat. Both servant and friend, she had aided the couple, had taken them into her care when they were lonely, frightened children, and she could not refrain from a moment's foolish sentiment. Clutching her skirts, she hurriedly climbed atop the chair for one last glance, just as Christine slipped her hand through his arm, clasping it tight.

"Godspeed!" Madame whispered to them. "I will pray for you each night."

He gravely nodded acknowledgement. "Merci," Christine whispered, her upturned eyes shimmering in the moonlight. "Tell Meg goodbye for me."

In the haste of their departure, there had been no time for even a brief farewell. Behind her, through the closed door, Madame heard the outside door crash against the wall and Meg speak with the soldiers, her voice high-pitched and anxious, her greeting confused in her pretense. She would take this hard, not having been given the opportunity to bid farewell to her dearest friend.

"If ever you need us, you have only to write," she assured. "We will come to Spain with all haste. Do not fear, child."

"I shall try to remember all you've taught me." Christine gave her a brave parting smile.

"Come, Mon Ange." His words were tender. "We must go." He drew his cloak around her and together they fled down the dark alley.

Madame watched their retreat as long as she dared.

It was all either of them ever wanted, to share in a life abundant with their music and love. She only hoped their chosen quest would not become their dying finale. He understood the streets of Paris well, having traveled them by night and would know the public areas to avoid. Yet, no matter his superior ability to blend into shadows, Madame feared that the former Opera Ghost and his gentle bride did not suffer a chance to realize their dream with so many adversaries in pursuit.

Shuddering both from the fearsome thought and the chill of night, Madame silently closed the window and stepped down from the chair, replacing it in its usual spot. As she hurried to detain the soldiers, she offered a silent petition heavenward, requesting absolution in advance for the lies she must soon tell.

**xxx**

* * *

**A/N:** **Trivia from hidden plot forum: On Erik as king- just a few of many things we found:**

He had an actual throne, (colors red and gold/his colors- also those colors were the "kingdom colors"- colors in opera house) ...

Every statue in his lair was royal, including his phoenix bed (the colors were red - sheets - the bird was gold. (both his colors) Purple was also in the sheets, and red, purple and gold are the colors of a phoenix, a royal mythological bird (gold body, red/purple wings). In the final lair scene it shows the head of the bird: Not a swan, but a phoenix ...

Another phoenix- a feng huang- stood in front of the Christine mannequin chamber- that Chinese phoenix is both male and female- which seemed to symbolize Erik/Christine) ...

They addressed him as a king- i.e.- "His reign will end!" - ...

in Notes, they showed a royal armed guard such as a king would have at a palace (not the soldiers with guns) stand at attention, midday, inside the empty foyer of opera house and bear swords (these guards also wore Erik's colors)- later this same armed guard stood in front of opera house during masquerade ...

He addressed himself as a king, first through Phantom spirit, who would bring the king to the queen (kings have their aides bring those with whom they wish to have an audience to see them- they don't go themselves- and this was only part of song sung in 3rd person, and in a strange wispy way)- "I have brought you to the seat of sweet music's throne, to this kingdom where all must pay homage to music, music ..." in subtitles, when it shows Christine in boat, on the screen it says, "Music, you have come here." (as if to show she IS music also.)

Erik was Music, the spirit incarnate, shown in many symbolic ways, besides what little I have shown here. So was she. (He made her into it, imparting his spirit to her.)- So all must pay homage to them.

Then the king speaks in 1st person- to Christine (after first looking troubled at the organ, when the changeover happened and Phantom spirit left to hide in the bust with mask on organ- the bust itself changing appearance, most noticeably in the black band around it's head going from thick to very thin within a few words, mask slipping, etc.)- "Since the moment I first heard you sing I have needed you with me to serve me to sing for my music, my music ..." -

Erik walked, dressed, acted like a king - noble, assured - throughout all of movie, and at masquerade, when he appeared all in red trimmed in gold (his colors- and Christine, his intended queen, was the only other one to wear his color- her underskirt being red) while everyone else wore black, silver, gold, white ... - 3 men and 3 women guests bowed or curtsied to him when he appeared at the top of the stairs (Phantom spirit was also there).

And much, much more in symbolism they used and the way they filmed this seems to show he was king and Music there, with Phantom spirit as his aide.

Thanks for the reviews! I appreciate them. :)


	3. Hunted

**A/N: I have always thought her ring meant more than engagement. Here are just a few reasons- A copy of it was engraved at the top of her father's plaque, it was made of 11 crystals (both crystals and the number 11 symbolic of protection, illumination/light, healing in actual symbolism) and she wore it around her neck in a manner that people who believe in the power of crystals do for protection from evil. So for this high fantasy (what I believe deeper story was)- the ring acts as a talisman (for protection from evil, but only to whom it belonged), and became a sign of engagement as well. Just a note to help, as you read…**

* * *

**xXx**

**Chapter III**

**xXx**

**.**

_Forever yours_, she had said, and meant it. Yet how long was forever? Would an entire lifetime be torn from them in the span of one horrific night?

Merciless rain drove down at a vicious slant and battered the sheltered platform upon which Christine stood, chilling her to the bone. Forked lightning flashed across the sky. The roar of thunder answered, terrifying in its intensity…

But it was their lack of an escort that shaped real fear into her heart.

She pulled her cloak closer and approached Erik where he stood near the platform's edge. A black scowl on his face as fierce as the storm, he stared at the barren landscape. It stood broken at diverse points by a border of spindly, forlorn trees, but no sign of life was apparent.

"He'll come," Christine said, more to reassure herself than him.

"Will he?" He gave a cynical shake of his head. "Why should he? I took what he foolishly considered his."

She frowned. "No one 'took' me. I came to you of my own accord."

"You should not even be out here." Thunder punctuated his statement. "You'll catch your death of cold. I should never have agreed to this plan!"

His biting comment sliced a raw furrow through already fragile nerves. Though it amounted to few, too many times for her peace of mind he had spoken similar words. Though his thoughtfulness toward her remained constant, at times she sensed his hesitation. The contradictions brought conflict to her heart.

"Erik, do you not want me anymore?"

In a blaze of lightning, the eye she could see through the slit of the mask winced. Despite her aversion to the covering because of what it once stood for he had insisted it essential he wear a mask in public.

"Never think that, Christine. _Never_." He drew her to his side, and she relaxed her head against his shoulder.

"Tell me, then. What am I to think when you speak such things?"

He made no reply, and she resigned herself to stare at the storm-ravaged countryside. She reminded herself that he, too, had been through torment this night. It had taken them the better part of three weeks to reach this point; plans had needed to be formed, unexpected problems had arisen. Madame Giry had helped Erik to remain hidden in another area below ground and had arranged their escape, but the need for secrecy kept their contacts slim. So few could be trusted in Paris since the opera house fire that made Erik a wanted man.

Weary, Christine closed her eyes, the physical and emotional strain she'd endured immense. How could fate be so cruel, to end their wedding before it began? And why had Raoul not yet come to meet them? Had he been detained by soldiers? So many questions. Too few assurances.

She knew it did no good to dwell on matters that could not be altered, a lesson learned from Madame Giry and one Christine diligently tried to apply to her life. Yet such a lesson was often, as now, difficult to grasp. Silent worries and questions persisted, roaring through her mind like thunder from the skies. Who had alerted the police? Certainly not Raoul; she refused to consider him anything but loyal.

Then who?

Another crash of thunder rocked the earth. A withered tree in the near distance burst into white flame as lightning sliced through it.

Erik hissed a steadying breath as Christine fiercely clutched him around his middle at the force of the explosion. His senses stirred like stoked embers as they always did at the mere touch of her hand. Wrapping his cape around her shivering form, he comforted her as best he could. He wished he could shelter her from the tempest that raged all around them like an uncaged beast.

This was madness!

Nowhere to go; nowhere to hide. In delay, and forced to wait at this ramshackle waystation from a bygone era. She had not once complained, though he could perceive her discomfort. He, too, was soaked to the skin.

Dear God, he did not deserve her! Would never deserve her. That truth had pounded into his skull with each chant of the murdering mob after she kissed him that final night in his lair. He could not doubt the love he'd seen shining in her eyes; nor could he believe it. He still had trouble imagining that someone so perfect, someone he so adored, could love a monster like himself. Yet how else could he explain her decision to flee with him to a future that offered nothing but a wealth of uncertainty? As always, he'd been unable to resist her gentle entreaty, to resist any opportunity to be with her.

_Oh, Christine…_

Erik shut his eyes at the onslaught of memories that brought them to this moment. It had almost destroyed him to order her to leave after their shared kisses in his lair. A simple word, a kiss. Wholly inadequate to define the whirlwind experience that seemed to fuse their souls as one. He'd seen that same revelation in her wondering eyes. Until then he had never known a kiss; but when her lips touched his in tenderness, the intimate contact deepening into passion, he also experienced the knowledge of all-encompassing love for the first time. And it was that love that had enabled him to order her to go.

Now, he cursed this overwhelming weakness that had him put her life in peril, all so he could remain by her side for as long as destiny permitted. He should have allowed her to remain safe with the Girys, should never have followed her to the cemetery that day. But his impoverished heart had defied all logic and led him toward her, while his resonant voice had obeyed his spirit and beckoned her to him. Without her presence in his life, he would surely cease to exist, had come close to doing just that.

When she had returned that fated night, so many weeks before, and folded into his hand her ring of promise, then walked away with that hopeful, sad fleeting smile, her act of selfless devotion struck fear into his heart. His understanding of her silent request had been immediate. To leave the darkness and follow her into the light. To release his past and spend an eternity with her. To take her as his wife and become to her a husband. And with every drop of blood surging through his veins he had desired to accept her unspoken invitation then. But the idea of a woman, slight in carriage and young in years, offering _him_ protection had been both amusing and difficult to grasp. Still, he had admired his sweet Angel's courage.

Life outside the opera house walls had been a perpetual hell; she had no idea what she asked of him. Even as he heard her wistful song of love to him in his mind, as the boat had taken her away, he could feel the pull of the Phantom trying to coerce him back into his dark clutches. Whispering familiar lies about safety in darkness, about the need to hide. The struggle within Erik's spirit had been great. And his mind hadn't been able to comprehend the depth of her pure love, when earlier his soul couldn't resist the lure of the Phantom's black hatred. He still failed to understand how she could love him after all he had done.

Then the Vicomte stunned him, assuring Erik he need only say the word, and he would serve and protect both himself and Christine. At that, Erik's confidence soared and he believed what before had seemed impossible. That he could destroy the black spirit's power over his life and leave the realm of Darkness behind. That he could break through the hidden passageway he'd constructed and step foot beyond the opera house walls. That he could move into the outside world and live in the light, his first time in twenty-two years. But sometimes, when the rage consumed him, he wondered if he was truly unchained from the darkness.

God help the Vicomte if he had betrayed them; for no mortal on this earth would be able to save the treacherous fool.

**xXx**

"So, then, Little Lotte. Have you chosen the Beast over the Prince?" Alone in his father's study, the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny addressed the crystal snifter he held. He placed it to his lips and tipped his head back, allowing the after-dinner brandy to burn a sweet path of fire down his throat. His laugh was cheerless. "For he is a king no longer, if indeed he ever was. Now that his royal disguise has been ripped from his face, will you finally see the light and recognize him for the murdering fiend he is?"

At his mention of the word "light," guilt stabbed his conscience. Yet honor seemed a blurred line to cross. His compulsory vow to protect and serve weighed upon the scales against her ultimate salvation. There really was no choice…

He bowed his head into his hand, the weight of her preference resting heavily upon his shoulders. "I would have given you anything you asked for; you would have never been in want. Is a life of having nothing and being forever on the run that much more preferable to a life of plenty?"

Logic told him the answer was a resounding no. She was merely incapable of making sound decisions at the moment. Again, she was being tricked, blinded by her girlish ignorance, and Raoul must save her from her own self. Must save her from _him_. The Phantom had escaped once too often, but at least Raoul succeeded in stopping the farce of a wedding.

This time, there would be nowhere to run.

Raoul's gaze went to the mantel clock. Adjusting his cravat, he stood then strapped on his sword.

It was time to go pick up the pieces. Soon the gendarmes would surround the platform and the beast would permanently be caged. Christine would need him.

Raoul reasoned that he did this for her benefit. She was too blinded by the madman's illusions and hypnotic trances to see reason. One day, she would thank him.

He wondered why those assurances did nothing to vanquish the burden from his soul.

**xXx**

Madame Giry woke from her semi-state of consciousness, fully alert. The uneasy premonition that something was very wrong beckoned to her mind. Only this unspoken warning seemed to come from a higher source, rather than the Darkness she had once known and served. Foreign to her, this new voice connected to truth deep within her spirit.

Nothing had gone as planned. Everything hinged on her ability to act and act quickly.

Pushing herself up from the pillows of her divan, she went in search of her daughter Meg.

**xXx**

The rain receded, but the storm raged on inside Erik's mind. Staring into the darkness, he experienced a menacing disquiet and sensed that danger lurked beyond evening's thick shadows.

"We must leave this place."

Christine offered no questions or resistance, only gave a weary nod. Concern for her edged through his murderous thoughts. How dare the insolent Vicomte do this to her! Never mind his hostility toward Erik, the feeling was mutual, but Christine deserved far better treatment than this blatant disregard!

With his arm and cape still wrapped around her, he helped her step off the platform. Her body trembled from the chill air, and he kept her close to his side to provide what little warmth he could as they walked through the ankle-deep muck and water. She needed shelter. She needed food. Somewhere he must find it.

Scraggly and dead-looking trees loomed amid what had turned into a shallow lake from the rain. The black silhouette of a small hillock rose to the south. From a map in one of the many books he'd possessed, Erik knew beyond that lay a river. Even if he were to find an abandoned boat, after such a storm the waters would be rapid, treacherous. He chose the trees to the right since lightning no longer presented a threat.

Christine's steps lagged. Her grip around his waist tightened in a struggle to hold on. She stumbled, and he knew she could go no farther. With deft purpose, he swept her up in his arms. She uttered no protest. In the light of the stars and moon that again filled the sky, gratitude shimmered in her eyes before she closed them. She laid her head against his shoulder, one arm loosely, wearily, wrapped around his neck.

Erik carried his cherished burden as he sloshed over marshy ground. Even sodden, she weighed little, and he drew his brows together in concern as he looked at her face. On one other occasion he carried her, when she fainted in his lair on that first night he'd brought her to it. She felt lighter now than she had then, and even then her form was slight, had always been delicate. Doubtless, these past months had wrought the crime that fatigued her body and spirit, and he stood accused of yet another fault to add to his many transgressions.

_Oh, Christine. If not for my cowardice at the prospect of a life without you, I would insist you return to safety. Yet how can I release you when you are my very heart?_

As if she heard his unspoken thoughts, her eyes flickered halfway open. A hint of a smile lifted her lips in an attempt to reassure. Emotion clutched his throat when weariness again closed her eyes. Three hours they had journeyed on foot in miserable conditions, without food or water. Not once had she complained, only encouraged him.

No, he did not deserve her, did not deserve her self-sacrifice. And that sharpened his guilt almost beyond what he could bear.

Erik had not traveled far when he sensed a change in the atmosphere. The hair at the back of his neck bristled. Alert to danger, he looked about him.

From the direction they had come, far into the distance, minute spots of yellow light bobbed through the darkness. He stiffened. One light could mean a friend, but more than one, an enemy. A mob.

Once again, he was being hunted.

**xXx**

"Christine."

His voice, both soft and urgent, brought her eyes open.

"You must walk, my Angel. We've reached an impasse, a short incline. I cannot climb and carry you. It is not steep, but the ground is slick."

From some reserve deep within herself she gathered the strength needed once he set her carefully on her feet. Years in the ballet enabled her limbs to endure enormous strain, but weeks of little to no appetite had weakened them.

"Come. I will help you."

Erik clasped her arm, as she did to his, while with his other hand he grabbed the low branch of a squat tree, using it as leverage to help pull himself up and her along with him. Her shoe slipped in the mud. She knew a moment's panic, but his grip tightened and he didn't allow her to fall. Using his strength, he brought her up level with him then braced his boot on a jutting shelf of rock until he secured a foothold. He pushed her above him. She grabbed a higher branch to aid her in climbing the final steps until she reached level ground.

Once he joined her, he gifted her with a smile. "I know that was difficult. You did well."

His approval bolstered her, giving a surge of life to her limbs. Together they trekked deeper into the forest. Two buildings appeared in the distance, shrouded in hazy white light. Above, the moon had broken through dark clouds and hung low, shining as a peaceful beacon. As they drew close, she could see that one of the structures showed signs of damage due to neglect, with most of its roof missing. The smaller building next to it seemed in good repair.

"Wait here." With one hand at the hilt of his sword, Erik left her within the safety of the trees and slipped into the clearing to investigate. She crossed her arms over her waist for warmth and watched him move with stealth from one building to the next. Soon he returned. "The house is abandoned but uninhabitable, the floor covered with water. The stable is dry and will provide a decent place to rest for the night."

Christine nodded. Any place where she could lay her head in undisturbed slumber sounded like heaven.

Together, they entered the small building, which smelled of hay, earth, and mildew. Erik instructed Christine to remove her soaked dress, handing her a dry woolen blanket he'd found. He then retreated outdoors to give her privacy.

Scanning the trees, he discerned no warning torches. They had walked deep enough within the thicket to be hidden, and the lake of rainwater would serve to conceal their footprints. Once the mob arrived at the rendezvous point and discovered the area vacant, he doubted they would continue their pursuit in the dead of night, ignorant of which direction to take. For the moment, they were safe.

Inside the deserted house, he located a tinderbox and candles, one of which he lit. A stack of dry wood sat near a hearth, and he found another blanket stashed on a shelf. Little else looked to be of worth. In the larder, he found two onions and a shriveled carrot, along with an iron pot and chipped bowl. He cast a wry glance at the meager provisions. A pouch of gold coins hung at his waist from the wealth of francs he'd had Madame convert into coinage. With one of them he could procure a feast, but instead he offered his Angel nothing but scraps. A travesty, indeed. Thoughts of retribution paled while feelings of protection intensified. He would do all within his power to take care of his beloved.

Erik returned to the stable with his finds. Christine sat on a milk stool, her head leaning sideways against a post, eyes closed, the blanket gathered around her sliding off one bare shoulder. At the vulnerable picture she made, his heart lurched. She had been through so much this night.

He stared a moment longer, then turned away and made a small fire. Sizeable cracks high in the wall would allow for passage of smoke. He unbuckled his sword and laid it within reach, grateful he had braved the darkness to return to his lair one last time to collect those items needed for their journey. His sword, his money, his dagger, his lasso. Without weapons or funds, he doubted they would be able to survive. And now, it appeared, they must embark on their journey alone.

He spread the blanket over the packed earth then approached his Angel.

"Christine?" His soft query didn't rouse her. He spoke her name above a whisper, but received the same result.

With infinite gentleness, Erik lifted her from the stool and carried her to the blanket. As he laid her down, the sweetest of smiles spread across her lips, a testimony that her dreams gave her pleasure. His breath caught at the sight. His hand trembled as he lifted it to trace her smile, his fingertips lingering on her soft, warm lips. He drank in the beauty of her delicate features for an eternal moment, the pale flush of her cheeks, the wild curl of her chestnut brown hair catching the firelight, then let his gaze slide down the gentle curves of her blanket-clad form with unhurried ease.

God, she was beautiful. Sitting this close to her, he felt his body respond in a way only her presence could evoke. He wanted her as he'd wanted no other woman. Yet how could he be to her all she desired? All she deserved? What guarantee did she have that he would not disappoint her again?

Erik clenched his teeth and closed his eyes, disgusted with himself and what he'd become. Sadly for her, there were no guarantees. When he'd borne witness to her silent suffering earlier, he had wanted to kill the despicable Vicomte, bury the rope into his throat and hear him gasp his last breath. And this time there had been no spirit to whisper such thoughts of death into his mind.

He tore off the white half mask that she so abhorred and stared at its glossy lines and sculpted hollows. His solid fears of the past collided with her nebulous hopes for their future. The fearsome ruler, the Opera Ghost was no more. His reign of terror had ended. Still, he found it difficult to honor her wish and abandon this one article of refuge to which he'd clung…though she had given up everything for him.

The past was dead…unattainable. Never did he wish to return to its madness…

Before he could question his sanity, Erik flung the covering into the flames.

**xXx**

Frustration coiled inside the Vicomte as he eyed the chief inspector. Since Raoul joined forces to lead the police to the designated spot an hour ago, the man had treated him with an underlying indifference in total disregard to Raoul's station.

"And just why can't your men search the area now?" Raoul motioned to the yawning blackness that surrounded the empty platform.

When he had arrived with the men, only to find Christine and the Phantom had vanished, his angry heart plunged to witness the decrepit condition of the place. Christine had stood in the storm and endured _this_? The thought sickened him. When Madame Giry informed him of the rendezvous point, he had assumed they would be sheltered, that the heavy door would not be chained shut.

"Monsieur, my men are weary. It ees the dead of night, and we have no tracks to follow." The inspector's drooping mustache twitched. He held his kerchief up to his bulbous red nose and blew into it. "Can you be so sure that this ees the man we have hunted for?"

"Of course I'm sure," Raoul bit out. "I've seen his face, I know him. And he has taken Miss Daae. If for that reason alone, we must find him."

"My men tell me they preempted a wedding ceremony by their arrival the first time you alerted us. A priest inside admitted this also."

Raoul pressed his lips together. "Your point?"

"Only that the mademoiselle does not appear, how shall I say - unwilling?"

Incredulous, Raoul stared at him. "And have you forgotten this is the same _animal_ who set fire to the opera house almost two months ago? And strangled the male lead?"

"So you say," the insufferable man replied.

"You doubt my word?"

"Non, non ..." The inspector put his hands up to placate him. "I merely point out the futility of a search in pitch darkness."

"You have torches."

"Again, monsieur, unless we are to track them to the four ends of the earth, we will not know what direction they've taken. Daylight will show us more. They could not have traveled far in such thick darkness…"

And what better time to catch the Phantom unaware? They must be close! Dawn might prove too late.

Raoul tightened his grip on the torch. Madame Giry must have gotten wind of his plan and leaked word to them; he knew where her loyalties rested.

Other than force the inspector to comply - and from his condescending attitude, Raoul did not presume that would happen - he was powerless. Ever since whispers had surfaced in the streets regarding the advent of a revolution, he had faced derision from a number of the working class.

"Very well," he said stiffly. "We shall resume the search at first light. I'll meet you here."

Raoul strode away. Alerted to movement at the back of the structure he gave a shout.

"There! Behind the building!"

Running ahead, he splashed though the muck and caught an edge of the loiterer's dark woolen cloak before an escape could be fully executed. Grabbing an arm, he twisted it around, forcing the cloaked figure to face him. A gasp of pain flew from the eavesdropper's lips. Fair hair shone beneath the hood that fell to her shoulders in the struggle. Brown eyes glared up at him with uncertainty.

"Meg Giry! Why are you here?" Grimacing, he forcefully released her arm then changed his mind and grabbed it again. He pulled her with him, away from the gendarmes, who looked on with curiosity. "Never mind. I know why you're here. It's to help them isn't it?"

"Christine's my friend." Her tone accused. "You're hurting me!"

Raoul eased his grip but didn't release her upper arm as he walked, dragging her along to keep up with him. "And is it only for Christine that you've come?"

She remained silent, staring straight ahead.

He halted and turned her around. "It's for _him_, too! My God, is everyone in Paris blind? Can you not see that the man is a maniacal murderer who should be locked away or better yet, hung? Can you not see that Christine is in danger?"

Her somber eyes regarded him. "Too long you've spoken of things you fail to understand, Vicomte. You refused to be silent, and now everyone has suffered for your transgression."

"You speak nonsense. I brought the light of truth to those who needed to hear it, to those who would listen."

"Truly?" Her gaze was constant. "Or were your plans and warnings for selfish gain alone? Was your purpose that night to heal - or to harm?"

Her soft questions probed at the self-reproach he'd pushed to some outer reach of his soul. He refused to give it recognition. Or her for that matter.

"I did what was necessary. I have no regrets, save one - that I let her return to that fiend with her ring and give it to him. Had I taken her away the moment he released her, we wouldn't be in this mess." His voice rose as if she'd argued a point. "You cannot tell me an evil spirit was to blame for the tragedy that occurred at the opera house!"

"You yourself said it."

"Spirits have no substance. What happened were the workings of a madman. A _human_, though I can scarce call him that."

"You saw the Darkness there, addressed it even. Christine told me."

The reminder pricked his conscience but he forced it away too. "And what else did she tell you, Mademoiselle? Did she also inform you of their destination?"

Her small chin lifted. "Even if I knew where they went, I would not tell you." Her quiet words surprised Raoul in their fierceness. "You are a different man than the one who came to the opera house months ago, as its esteemed patron. In truth, I used to envy Christine your interest in her. Now I cannot think why."

"Enough! I'll hear no more of this foolishness. I will find them. And by all that is holy, you'll help me, you and your mother. I'm certain she must know their whereabouts to have sent you here tonight."

Ignoring her efforts to free herself from his grip, he forced her to walk with him to the road where his carriage awaited.

**xxx**


	4. More to Me

**xXx**

**Chapter IV**

**xXx**

**.**

Madame Giry stared with solemn reflection into the flames of the five-branched candelabrum. The gendarmes, failing to secure answers or fugitives in their hunt for both had soon departed, and Madame knew surprise that they'd not taken her to prison. Fear that she had failed her Maestro and his intended bride pierced her heart at the memory of their recent evasion from capture.

With all Madame had been to him throughout their years of acquaintance, rescuing him from gypsies, concealing him from mobs, serving him from the time she was a child, she had nurtured a reverential bond to the man whom the majority knew only as a ghost. Even then, she'd never sought familiarity in their relationship, brought on by both respect of his title and fear of the spirit which had controlled him, which she had _seen_ control him on the night she first beheld Erik - _Music_ - at the gypsy carnival.

As a girl of twelve she'd known his identity, while the foolish crowd, so blinded by the filth of their vulgarity, failed to discern the truth of his existence. Even her jeering acquaintances from the ballet had not perceived that Music dwelt in their midst, and laughed at him with scorn, their hearts cold and hard. But Madame's soul had yearned for what she recognized was missing the moment she looked into the boy's wise, haunted eyes. She sensed he had recognized both her concern and her need during the brief connection that took place between them, before he looked away.

Despite the taunts of the crowd, despite the insults hurled at him, he then did what he was created to do. He shared music by gently tapping the cymbals of the monkey toy together. Then as now, the people refused to listen. To truly see him as he was. As had been the case at the opera house, the harsh depravity of their lives muffled the beseeching tones of Music's existence. Except for two brief moments in the portals of time when silence did not have its way. Once, when the people heard without knowledge, as Christine took the stage and pealed forth with the crystal clarity of her pure voice in her debut performance. Her Angel had stood below in the tunnels, singing through her mind, inspiring her with his spirit. During that one tremendous aria, together they had taught the audience. She had been his mask and he had remained hidden ... then.

Madame Giry's hand went to the cross at her neck as she remembered the last occasion. That night, the bridge, those haunting words ... For one captivating moment, when even time caught its eternal breath, Music and his chosen Queen reached into the empty souls of the people. And in that instant they knew. They listened. They understood. Erik then sang from the depths of his beseeching heart of his love and need for Christine. No witness could dispute the truth that they were destined counterparts of the other. Nor fail to recognize Christine's betrayal of those who lived inside the kingdom. No one, except for the king, perhaps…

Her eyes closed at the recollection of the pall of darkness that swept over the theater once the Phantom spirit seized the moment - the horror, the panic, the tears - as had been the case at the gypsy camp. Each time Erik tried to reach out, he was silenced. First by the cruel gypsy and his beatings, later by the wicked spirit and his lies. How foolish she had been to believe evil's facade that preyed on the mind and weakened the heart; how foolish they all had been to believe what amounted to nothing but deception! And now, she sensed they'd been fooled again, from a different source...

Hearing the outside door open, Madame leaned forward on her divan with relief, expecting Meg. Once the soldiers departed, her daughter had been adamant in her desire to follow the fugitives to the rendezvous point, both to say farewell and to ensure their safety, and nothing Madame said would stop her.

Two sets of footsteps moved across the floor, one of them heavier than her daughter's gentle tread. She clutched her cross tightly in consternation, recalling their recent brush with the gendarmes.

"Meg, chère. Is that you?"

"Oui, Mère." The voice came flat, and as Meg rounded the corner to the sitting room, Madame understood why.

She had never told the Vicomte where she lived. Their two prior meetings had taken place at a café. His presence here when he should be aiding the runaway couple amounted to evidence she could not discount, and her worst fear became realized.

The Maestro had been correct not to trust him. Raoul had deceived them all.

Drawing upon a calm she did not feel, she pretended ignorance and rose to her feet. "Vicomte de Chagny, this is a surprise."

"Perhaps you were expecting someone else?" His words mocked.

"I fail to understand what you mean."

"Come now, Madame, you presume to tell me that you had no part in arranging the marriage ceremony that was to be held here tonight?"

She shot a glance at her daughter. Meg gave an imperceptible shake of her head, assuring she'd not disclosed the information. The plans of the wedding had been shielded from the Vicomte; the Maestro stressed he not be told, and in that matter alone, Madame had not failed him.

"You are surprised to learn that I know your secret?" The Vicomte's eyes grew wintry. "I heard word that a priest was summoned to the tenement, and a blind one at that, which housed the former ballet headmistress of the opera house. Since I assumed no last rites were to be delivered here, I perceived the unusual summons to be of a more sinister nature."

Ignoring his sarcasm, Madame Giry moved toward the cupboard. "Perhaps you would care for some tea, Monsieur? Or some wine?"

"What I want is the location of the Phantom! Is he skulking in the shadows?" He stormed to the back of the tenement's few rooms. Madame exchanged a look with her daughter. Meg opened her mouth to speak, but Madame shook her head in silent warning. The Vicomte soon returned from his fruitless search.

"Where are they?" he demanded.

"J'ai regrette, Monsieur, I cannot help you."

"Cannot? Or will not? You _will_ be sorry if something happens to her!"

"I cannot tell you what I do not know."

"Do you deny that he was here tonight, when we both know otherwise?"

She collected her thoughts. "I tell you the truth when I say I do not know where he is at this moment."

"That you harbored a criminal might be of great interest to the police." His hand rested at his sword's hilt.

"You threaten me, Monsieur?" She regarded him steadily. "Perhaps you intend to flay me with your sword?"

The stunned shock that crossed his features convinced her of what she hoped to realize.

"You are not a wicked man, Vicomte. I know this. Even though you betrayed him, I recognize the rationale behind your impulsive action is due to the pain you feel, similar to what he also experienced when you courted Christine." She shook her head in compassion. "Let her go. You cannot take someone's heart by force."

"Force seems to be all she understands! Did he not do the same? Christine is little more than a girl."

"She is a woman who knows her heart."

His mouth compressed into a thin line. "I did not come to argue Christine's misjudgment of feelings or character. I came to capture a madman."

"And I have told you, I cannot help you."

"We shall see, Madame. If you are hiding him or have involved yourself in his reckless escape it will go better for you if you were to disclose such information now. As you well know, this has become a matter for the police. If you remain silent you will be considered a criminal - as he is a criminal I will again remind you, since much of Paris seems to have forgotten."

"I have broken no law. Yet perhaps there is a higher law at stake than any law made by earthly courts." She inclined her head to the side, surveying him. "You speak of truth - yet you accuse him of crimes you were prepared to commit not so long ago, monsieur. Had your foolish conspiracy and entrapment succeeded, you might be the fugitive on the run."

"The soldiers supported my cause."

"It is not the soldiers to whom I refer. Do you truly believe he had no knowledge of your plans for his demise before Christine revealed them on the Don Juan stage? He had spies everywhere and greater power than you have yet to realize."

"Ah, yes, of course. The elusive 'Phantom and his minions,'" he said with weary sarcasm. "'The dark powers responsible for all the destruction at the opera house.' I have heard it before, Madame." He flinched when she continued to assess him with steady eyes, as though he perceived the memory she recalled.

Not so many weeks ago, the Vicomte spoke with her at the Bal Masque, trying to impel her to recognize the verity of the words he now shunned: a message of hope that had initiated her desire to change, and a note of caution to terminate her servitude to the darkness. Darkness he had then seen and recognized, before his mission became personal in his desperate struggle to overthrow the king and claim Christine.

He abruptly turned as if he feared she might remind him of that night. "Since you refuse to be speak of what you know, I shall take my leave. However, be warned, I'll not go far." Ever the aristocrat, he gave a slight nod, his words stiff. "Adieu."

Once he swept out, slamming the door behind him, Madame Giry motioned her daughter forward. "Come, chère." Her voice low, she took Meg's hand and hurried her to the divan. "We must talk."

Later, when Meg peeked out the parlor curtain and saw the Vicomte had taken residence as a guard outside, she hugged her mother in farewell and slipped out the bedroom's transom window, just as Christine and her Angel had done hours ago.

**xXx**

Christine whimpered. Caught up in a web of dreams, she ran.

Thick veils of darkness came alive and reached for her, suffocating, cloying, wrapping her within their tightening folds, dragging her ever downward ... and then ... A Voice. The sweetest aria flowed into her mind, gently washing into the hungry crevices of her soul. She recognized the source of the music; it was the very composition of who she was. Tender and melodious, his words of loving reassurance caused the black curtains to curl away, to evaporate into nothingness. The music lifted her until she floated in clouds of sheer contentment.

She forced heavy eyelids to open.

Her Angel sat close, his eyes flickering in surprise to see her awaken.

"I never again thought to hear you comfort me in sleep..." Her voice came soft, wondering. She fought against the haze of exhaustion. "…or to see you with me when I woke." She reached out to touch his hand where it rested against his knee, to assure herself he was really there.

His smile was gentle. "Sleep, sweet Christine. We have a long journey ahead of us. Sleep."

She gripped his hand, fearful he might leave.

His other hand covered hers. "I am here."

Warmed by his assurance, she closed her eyes. When next she opened them, it was to the gentle shaking of her shoulder.

"Christine, the sun rises. We must be away from this place." Erik's low words pulled her from the remnants of dreamless slumber.

Feeling refreshed, she pushed herself up to sit while he moved to an iron pot that stood atop the flames of a dying fire. Her dress lay over a nearby stool, as did her cape. Both appeared dry.

"I made a soup of vegetables. Onions and a carrot. Meager offerings, but enough to sustain us until I can find something more substantial."

She said nothing, only watched him where he stood with his back to her. Through cracks in the eastern wall, glimmers of dawn streamed inside, gilding his trim muscled legs in the close-fitting breeches, his voluminous white shirt, his soft brown hair that had grown almost to brush his shoulders. She was glad the stiff black wig was a thing of the past.

Drawn to him in a way that never failed to astonish her, she wordlessly rose from the blanket and walked up behind him. She laid her hand on his back. His muscles tensed beneath her touch. Sensing his withdrawal, confusion edged her mind.

"Erik?"

"You must eat, dear child." His voice was quiet.

Child? In recent months he called her flattering child, another time, wandering child. Neither time did those expressions apply.

"Erik, please look at me."

When he remained still, she moved to stand in front of him. The appearance of the black bandit-style mask he now wore and must have fashioned as she slept gave her pause; did he think that by creating a different mask she would now be satisfied and accept his decision to hide himself from her?

"What has happened between us that you have returned to old ways? Are you again a father to me?"

"I have always taken care of you, always protected you."

"And for that I am grateful. You lessened my solitude and my fears and filled the void after my father departed this earth. But now I am a _woman_. I'm no longer a child. You brought these feelings out in me, my Angel, since the first night we were together in your lair. Do you remember? It was then that you revealed what was inside your heart."

She pressed her fingers to his jaw, rough with the shadow of a beard, and saw his eyes flinch at the contact. Yet neither did she miss the adoration they held, and that truth emboldened her.

"You are so much more than a guardian to me," she whispered. "No longer a father. _Never_ again that..."

Daringly, she stood on tiptoe and brushed her lips over his parted ones. His breath rushed warm against her skin in a harsh gasp and her heartbeat quickened. It was the first true intimate contact they'd had in _weeks_, the first kiss since their reunion at the cemetery, and she yearned to extend such pleasures.

Pressing herself against him, Christine wrapped her arms about his neck. Little shocks tingled through her at the sinful brush of exposed skin and dusting of his hair against the upper swells of her breasts, where his shirt lay open. Dear God, he was _so warm…_ She felt his muscles stiffen, but that did not deter her as she wantonly pushed her tongue deep inside his mouth, finding it also so warm…. She mewed a little in delight, reveling in the heat that radiated off every bit of his flesh. His heart pounded against her, keeping rhythm with her own, though he remained frustratingly motionless, and she wove her fingers into the soft hair at his nape, silently begging him to respond.

At last with a faint groan Erik brushed his tongue oh so softly against hers. His slight movement electrified her, and Christine whimpered for more.

His arms closed fast around her, crushing her to his hard body and lifting her off her feet. She gasped at the startling sensation, a little nervous to feel that mysterious part of him so solid against her. She had felt its gentle swell the first night in his lair when he held her close, with only a few, thin layers of material between them then, as now, and later in his fervent embrace on the Don Juan bridge. Shy but intrigued and lost in his passion, she had not pulled away. This time, however, it felt larger, and in a flash of intuition, she knew this was proof of his desire for her. Somehow, that eased her childish fear, to know that her touch affected him no matter that he had feigned disinterest, and as the music rang within her mind, she melted against him as a woman to a man, trusting him with all that she was...

Her senses reeled as his tongue seductively caressed hers, coaxing it into willing submission and robbing her of breath. Gladly she would give every one of them to him if it meant he would never cease kissing her like this.

Suddenly he set her down. His hands moved from clutching her back to locking about her wrists and breaking her tight hold from around his neck. "Christine, no!" He retreated an unsteady step. "_God help me - I cannot afford the pleasure._"

"What do you mean?" she panted, regarding him with shocked hurt. "I don't understand."

His tortured eyes grew remote as he put up an invisible defense. She wanted to scream or cry in her distress, but the sudden faraway whinny of a horse replaced the tense moment with one even more extreme.

"Stay here," Erik ordered tersely, reaching for his cape and sword. He buckled it around himself and stepped out the door.

Numb with fright, her heart now racing with dread, Christine hurried to pull her dress over her chemise and corset.

_Dear God, no! After all this time, they could not find him now!_

**xXx**


	5. A Friend's Aid

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews! Because of some confusion in a few of them, I have taken out some references (not all) where Erik is addressed or thought of as king throughout story. I filled those in with Maestro (master), his name, etc, to make it easier to read for those who just can't get a handle on that idea yet. :)  
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**xXx**

**Chapter V**

**xXx**

**.**

A shallow splash broke the eerie silence that enshrouded the area. Her heart beating fast, Meg darted a look over her shoulder.

Tendrils of fear snaked around the corners of her mind, while echoes of urgency resounded deep within her spirit. Both commanded her forward in haste; yet she held back, uncertain.

A heavy white mist obscured her vision, making it difficult to see more than a few feet in any direction. The forest stood still, as though under a strange enchantment. Above the swirls of mist loomed dense trees, sinister black wraiths that spread their branches wide in silent threat. She shivered.

_It's my imagination … only my imagination._

She wished now she hadn't been quite so adamant to venture into these impossibly dark woods, no matter how vital the mission. Her considerable desire to know more often led her into tight corners, through dank corridors, down rat-infested, hidden passageways …

A fox scampered across Meg's path. She let out a squeak and clapped a hand over her mouth, jumping a step back then gasped in relief, chuckling nervously, to see that a living creature, an animal, must have made the splash. She lowered her shaky hand and studied the shadowy region for further signs of life. Her breath misted on the morning air. Rainwater covered the earth, pooling around her boots.

"Meg Giry, why are you here? And why have you brought Orion?"

Her heart seemed to leap in her throat and stuck there as she spun to face the bearer of the sharp query. As she moved, she knocked against the black stallion, which whinnied and pranced a step sideways, nervously tossing its head.

He stepped forward out of the mist and patted the beast's neck, murmuring a cadence of calm, unintelligible words, almost a song. Orion quieted.

Meg swallowed, striving to regain composure. It always filled her with disquiet when he so silently appeared, as if out of thin air. Her master both terrified and fascinated her.

"You must leave at once," she said, her voice slightly trembling. "You are in grave danger. The Vicomte leads a search party at dawn; even now they may be searching. He intends to see you executed."

His laugh was wry. "So the great protector now seeks to destroy?"

"His sole mission, or so he says, is to help Christine."

"Help her! And did he presume that to leave her standing in the chill rain was of especial benefit to her? The fool!"

She shook her head. "I know not what to think. He has changed since that night."

"As have we all." His words carried with them a heavy weight. He glanced down, resting his sword's blade in the palm of his hand, the expression in his eyes behind the black mask, unreadable.

Meg squirmed. Standing so near to him, she felt almost overwhelmed by the silent force he exuded. Although stripped of his kingdom and all it contained, the man remained an imposing presence.

"You must know, I've always been faithful to you, even as a child before we met. And ma mère, she too is faithful. She believed the Phantom spirit to be nothing but good since the night she saw him save you from the gypsy - she told me this. She truly thought the Vicomte would help us. There was no one else to turn to -"

He lifted his hand to quell her rush of words. "Be still, Meg." His command was soft. "I know your mother would never bring harm to me. I do not fault her, or you, for any of what happened." His gaze went to the trees. "Tell me, does the insufferable Vicomte know of our destination?"

"_Non._ We have done as you commanded in that regard. Ma mère didn't speak of the matter though he was very persuasive." When making plans weeks ago, at Meg's suggestion based on her strong intuition, her mother only told the Vicomte that he was to meet them at the rendezvous point and take them far from there.

Steady footsteps splashed in the mire, drawing closer. The Maestro swung around with quiet grace, his sword held at the ready. Meg scarcely allowed herself to draw breath. As they watched, a woman emerged from the mist.

His mouth thinned in displeasure and he sheathed his sword. "Christine. I told you to wait inside. I was uncertain it was safe."

"When you failed to return I grew worried." Her anxious gaze went past him. A smile broke across her face. "Meg, my dear friend!"

She closed the distance and fiercely embraced her. Meg was again reminded that soon they would part, perhaps forever, and held her just as tightly. They shared no blood relation but retained a bond of sisterhood that had strengthened over the years.

"Are you all right, Christine?" she asked, drawing back, searching her wide eyes.

"Yes, we found shelter in a stable." Christine shook her head in confusion. "But, why have you come? And where is Raoul?"

Meg glanced toward her master, who gave a curt nod of consent. "I've brought Orion from the opera house stables so that you have transport to Spain. I'm sorry, Christine, but the Vicomte cannot be trusted."

A stricken look crossed her face and she gasped. The Maestro narrowed his eyes. "Did you tell him of our plans to travel to Spain, Christine?" His tone was hushed, but in the eerie stillness his words seemed amplified.

The expression she turned toward him conveyed both innocence and sincerity. "You asked me to say nothing; I honored your request. I spoke to him only once since you and I reunited. I assure you, my Angel, we are the only ones to know of our destination."

He visibly relaxed and gave her a nod of approval.

Meg held her breath as she watched them share a look of tenderness. It lasted only seconds, but its brevity didn't make the unspoken message any less powerful. Their mysterious connection couldn't be denied, and Meg thought back to the first time she realized this. Not until the night of the masquerade ball did she learn that King Music had chosen Christine for his bride, when he sang to all his subjects that Christine was worthy to be his queen. On that night, Meg first beheld her master. The magnetism of his presence staggered her then, as it did now.

Breathless, all those in attendance watched as the king and his chosen bride drew toward one another in a timeless stare so compelling, the tender intensity of it so powerful, Meg had felt shaken to the core of her soul. Within a matter of months, Meg observed Christine transform from a girl of timid uncertainty to a woman of untold strength; from shy trepidation regarding the initial meeting with her Angel of Music, to bold courage in facing the phantom spirit and fighting for her beloved.

Meg did not witness the final confrontation in his lair, but any qualms she once experienced about their union were vanquished when she learned of it. Doubtless, Christine was the only woman suitable to become his bride, to complement his mesmeric power. Nor could Meg fail to note the warm devotion that shone from their eyes whenever they looked at one another, oblivious to the world around them. She felt like an intrusive spectator viewing a treasured moment of intimacy, and though the sight cheered her heart to know her friend had found true love, it made the dull prick of her own loneliness that much harder to bear.

Knowing the time had come to part, Meg unfastened the gold cross from around her neck and placed it in Christine's hand, laying her own hand over it. "Always, I will serve you, mon ami. If ever you need me, you have only to write and I will come. Let this serve as a token of my vow." She sadly kissed Christine's cheek in farewell, her eyes as misty as her friend's.

Braving her discomfiture to approach the man who many had known as the Phantom of the Opera but few recognized as a king of music, Meg then moved to take his limp hand and kissed it, her head bowed. If a film of water didn't cover the earth, she would have knelt. "No matter the distance between us, I pledge to you my allegiance, now and always."

"Hardly a king any longer, Meg." His voice was quiet, moved.

She looked up in surprise. "A king is still a king whether his kingdom has been torn away from him or whether he rules it. Your blood is no less royal."

"Well said." Christine smiled and looked at him.

He remained silent.

Sensing she had overstepped her bounds, Meg retreated. "I'll locate the stable and remove evidence of your stay so they cannot track you. You must go now. I sense they are not far behind. There is bread and cheese in the saddle bag, enough to last several days."

"It is difficult to find words to express what your loyalty means to me, Meg Giry. One day I shall see to it that you and your mother are rewarded. You have my word on this." He helped Christine to mount then swung up behind her.

Meg handed the reins up to him. She shared one last look with Christine, whose dark eyes held both dismay and gratitude. "God go with you," Meg whispered, her voice trembling. She squeezed Christine's hand before the Maestro nodded once in farewell and kicked his heels against Orion's flanks.

Meg could scarcely see for the tears in her eyes. She watched as the stallion galloped away, watched until long after the mist swallowed all traces of the couple, watched the mist itself, until she no longer heard Orion's hooves strike the ground.

Heaviness troubled her spirit and she feared it stemmed from a source other than the pain of having to say farewell to her friend. She prayed in her heart they would both find safety.

**xXx**

While the gendarme combed the area to the south and west, Raoul paced the marshy grounds to the east, ever watchful for signs of the Phantom's quick flight. At the bottom of a short incline, low branches were bent, sweeping the ground as if someone had used them to climb. Here the water did not settle, and two furrows in the ground above revealed that someone had slid. The indentation of a boot print marred the soil higher up. Assured he had found the path of their escape, he climbed the hill, all the while cursing his stupidity.

He, the Vicomte de Chagny, had been hoodwinked by a slip of a girl! The elusive Miss Giry must have slipped into the alley late last night as he'd stood watch in front of her mother's tenement. He now felt certain of their guilt in lending a hand in the Phantom's latest escape. How had he ever thought Meg Giry to be unassuming, quiet, and shy? At the opera house the obscure girl blended into the background, rarely bringing attention to herself. Even in the opera, she was merely another dancer in the troupe, never emerging into the spotlight. Yet from her divergent actions of the past two days, it appeared the Phantom wasn't the only one to wear a mask!

_Say the word and I will follow you ..._

Unbidden, the message he'd sung that night in the Phantom's dark lair filtered into his mind. He ignored it, choosing to remember other truths. Raoul had nearly perished at the fiend's hand - twice. He'd been exhausted in both mind and body. To even entertain the idea that he'd been addressing both a king from a musical realm and a controlling spirit of darkness proved that he'd not been thinking clearly. Yes, he had advised Madame Giry, Christine, and others to break free from the chains of evil, imparting a message of deliverance and truth, per his assigned mission there. But he didn't believe an actual evil spirit, an _aide_ to a _king_, had used its power to manifest itself and wreak destruction. There had been no "Phantom" of the opera!

Only later did he realize the extent of what he vowed to the man who'd shattered so many lives. That to fulfill such a vow to serve and follow would not benefit Christine. His Little Lotte. And her safety was of utmost importance.

Reaching level ground, Raoul looked about the shadowed area. Once again the darkness of that night seeped into his mind, happenings for which logic had no hold, pushing to remind him of things he chose to ignore. Once again, he shoved the unwanted reminders away.

What dark shape in the shadows that he'd seen, or thought he'd seen, had been a trick. An illusion that plagued his fatigued mind. Since that night, only one reality sharpened his intellect, pushing all indistinct matters of conscience aside.

"Angel of Music" or Beast - the man was still a killer.

The mist had thinned, but masked objects in the distance. Raoul saw a flash of gray and yellow in motion through the trees. He tensed and peered harder. With a low growl, he broke into a run, splashing through the muck.

Meg looked over her shoulder and saw him. She picked up her skirts and raced away, but Raoul had the advantage of surprise. He caught her cloak, then her arm and pulled her around to face him, in the process almost sending them both plummeting to the slippery ground.

"Let me go!" she demanded.

"**_Where are they?_**_"_ His thunderous bellow stilled her actions.

Her brown eyes widened in terrified surprise. At her reaction, Raoul felt penitent and eased his grip. All fear vanished, her expression determined as she wrenched free of his hold and kicked him hard in the shin. Her years in the ballet lent speed to her legs as she then fled from him. Raoul cursed her trickery and set out after her, limping a few steps, also impeded by the sword at his side.

Meg scampered up a hill with the ease of a doe, vanishing into the mist. Raoul continued to give awkward chase. An agonized cry rent the air, followed by the unbroken sounds of rustling, splashing, and a drawn-out scream - ending in abrupt finality. Heart frozen by the terror he'd heard in her cry, Raoul frantically increased his pace up the hill.

**xXx**


	6. Shocking Revelations

**xXx**

**Chapter VI**

**xXx**

**.**

The relentless chanting of ghost mobs echoed through Erik's mind, urging him onward, while dragging him back to a shadowed time he wished desperately to forget.

Orion broke through the trees and they left the insidious mist far behind. Faint rays of light shimmered through a dense cloudbank, marking their path.

Relieved to be away from the oppressive forest, Erik nonetheless continued their frenzied pace, keeping one arm tightly around Christine. He pushed Orion harder, the rainwater splashing up high from beneath the stallion's hooves. Only when he felt assured that he'd put enough distance between him and their pursuers, only then did he slowly bring Orion to a walk.

A copse of trees appeared to the left. He guided the stallion there to rest.

Erik dismounted and helped Christine to alight. She was distracted, quiet. Concerned that she'd had no sustenance since the previous day, he handed her the cloth sack from the saddlebag, containing food.

"You must eat, Christine."

"So must you."

He gave a short nod of assent, and she took the bundle, locating a dry spot on the ground to sit. After Erik tied Orion to one of many slender trees not yet in bloom, leaving him to graze on what little grass there was, he joined her, taking a place across from her. She handed him a portion of the bread and cheese. He took it, and they ate, immersed in their thoughts.

Minutes of heavy silence passed before she blurted, "Tell me, Erik, what did you mean at the stable when you said you couldn't afford the pleasure of a kiss? Did you say that because you knew you were being hunted? Or was it for a different reason?"

Taken aback by her abrupt questions, he studied her somber countenance. Though her cheeks bloomed in her discomfort, she returned his steady gaze.

Since the evening of the Bal Masque, she had become stronger, bolder, shedding much of her little girl shyness and fragility. The portion of him that nurtured her as guardian and teacher felt pleased to witness such maturity; another part, the part that was flesh and blood male, felt exasperated by it.

"It is difficult to explain."

Her hesitation was slight. "I should like to know."

"Would you _really_, Christine? You would like to know?" His terse words ended on a frustrated breath. At her determined nod, he inhaled deeply and slowly released it. "Very well, I shall tell you. I have done many wicked deeds in my lifetime, as you are well aware, but I will not add to that long list and dishonor you."

"Dishonor me?" She shook her head. "How can a kiss be a cause of dishonor?"

"Ah, Christine. So young, so innocent." His words were derisive.

At her look of confused hurt, he lowered his gaze and closed his eyes. Remorse prodded his soul. She wasn't at fault. He shouldn't take out his damnable frustrations on her.

He took a few precious seconds to compose his thoughts before he again looked at her and spoke more gently. "I find that when I am with you, to hold you ... to kiss you ..." His gaze lowered to her lips a moment before returning to her eyes, "I fight other demons than those that controlled the opera house. These demons reside inside my flesh and know no honor. Or, perhaps it is a part of my darker self that is forever chained to the Phantom?" he suggested wryly.

"Don't say such a thing." She frowned in displeasure. "Don't even think it."

Erik dropped his focus to his hands. "Last night I would have married you and taken you as my queen. I destroyed that from happening because I allowed the Phantom to wreak his vengeance. Now what does our future hold?"

She was silent a moment. "Surely we can find a village and a church, when it's safe to do so…?"

He gave an abrupt nod. Almost without thought he ripped away small morsels of bread, letting them fall heedless to the ground. How he wished he could so easily dispose of the past. He had fled the opera house, but had yet to purge the darkness that ruled him for more than two decades. At times he wondered if it were a permanent fixture in his soul.

_Oh, Christine. I have done you a great disservice by bringing you into my wretched world. And yet, if you had never entered my kingdom I would not know what it means to feel alive, instead of merely to exist._

She put a gentle hand to his, stopping his actions. He looked up, startled from his bleak reverie and noted her earnestness, the fight in her eyes.

"You will fight this monster that still seems to have a hold on you, Mon Ange," she pronounced quietly. "I will help you. And you will heal."

"If your father were alive ..." he stopped to clear the huskiness from his throat that her sweet promise brought, "he would be pleased with the remarkable woman you have become."

"You knew my father?" Surprise laced her voice, and she answered her own question. "But of course, you must have known him. At his deathbed, he told me that he would send you to me. But I lost hope after weeks went by and you never came. I'd begun to convince myself that his promise to send an Angel of Music was a fantasy birthed by the riddles and tales he told. When you finally did come, I was awestruck, but as I grew older, I began to think it all happenstance - and that you only called yourself my Angel because I inquired if that's who you were on the night you first sang to me. But he _did _send you didn't he?" Her question was rhetorical. She already knew the answer.

His smile was reminiscent, as though he, too, recalled that long-ago evening and her timid hopefulness when she approached the chapel wall beyond which he hid. As a child of seven, kneeling in her bed gown with her bare toes peeking beneath the hem, joy and trepidation had quivered through her spirit once his first glorious notes gifted her ears. She had laid the wick down which she'd just used to light the candle for her father, and stood, her heart pounding hard. Edging closer to the painted mural of angels, she was drawn to the soft, melodious voice that drifted to her from nowhere and pushed away from her soul the dark sorrow of her father's passing. Pressing her little hands against the wall once his song ended, imbued with apprehension and hope, she laid her cheek against the rough plaster and whispered, "Are you my Angel of Music that father promised me?"

Empty silence answered and brought tears of disappointment to her eyes, before a low, gentle voice responded, "Yes, sweet child. Do not fear; I will guard you now."

Christine fondly remembered that moment, his promise, her Angel's voice. He had done all he said he would, and now she had him with her forever. Not as a true angel, instead as a man; but oh, that was so much better!

"How did you come to know my father?" she asked, noting the tenderness in his eyes, as if he also recalled that moment in the chapel.

"He came to live at the opera house as a musician before you were born. He and Madame Giry were close acquaintances. It was through her that we met."

"Please, tell me more." Christine eagerly leaned forward, her hands on her knees. "I remember so little about him. The passage of years has caused many memories to fade."

"He wished to become a great violinist."

Her eyes widened in understanding. "It was through you he learned the craft!"

"I helped him to excel, yes. He already possessed the talent."

She observed Erik in wonder. Very few had been granted an audience with him. She had thought she and Madame Giry were the only ones he'd met with. Even then, he had delayed until only months before to reveal himself to Christine, though she'd known his voice for nine blissful years. And her father had been his pupil!

"Did you know my mother, as well?"

"No, she lived outside the kingdom. Shortly after they met, your father left the opera house. But he returned years later with a request." He studied her face, his expression gentle. "He told me he had a daughter who possessed the voice of an angel. At the time he knew he was dying, and asked that I guard her and later teach her so that she might one day become a great opera singer. Music was all she ever wanted. She dreamed of being Little Lotte."

Tingles of amazement swept through Christine to realize he spoke of her.

"We conversed, and I told him that I would grant his request, upon the condition that she might one day become my bride."

Her mouth parted in further shock at this revelation. "The marriage between us was arranged from the beginning?"

"Yes; when I first heard you sing you captured my heart. Once we met on the night you took my hand and stepped through the mirror door, my adoration for you only matured. And it is because of what I feel for you that I will not sully what we have found, Christine - and in so doing destroy you, as I've destroyed all else!" His eyes burned into hers. "I will not make love to you though it is my greatest desire." He said the words forcefully, as if to convince himself of his honor more than to assure her of its existence. "To cause you such shame, such harm, after all else I have done … no." He shook his head, his voice lowering in despair. "Indeed, it is a wonder you can love me at all."

His jaw rigid, he lunged to his feet and strode a short distance away, coming to an abrupt halt. He stood with his back to her, his head bowed.

Speech failed her. How could she respond?

"Erik ...?" she whispered, her heart twisting at his pain.

"To kiss you, even to be near you, strongly compels me to forget the vow I made." His admission came quietly, as though she'd not spoken. " To myself _and _to your father."

"But that night, on the bridge ..." Her words escaped before she could call them back.

"Even then, even while under the Phantom's curse, I would not have taken you to my bed until you were my wife. Consider the wedding gown I had made for you; consider also, the ring and my pledge. I had planned to capture you, yes, and force you into marriage and a life with me. But even those plans changed at the opera."

"Changed?"

He turned then to look at her, his manner grave. "When you came to me of your own accord, when I saw in your eyes that I was the man you had chosen, then, Christine, everything changed."

She struggled to comprehend all he told her. Despite having lived among those whom the aristocrats considered tawdry, also participating in operas regarded as risqué, she knew little of what went on in the act of passion between a man and woman. Madame Giry had attentively shielded her, and Meg was to her more of a devoted sister than servant, often watching out for her. She'd had no alliance with other cast members, though in passing she had witnessed couples in ardent embrace. Her three months with Raoul had been a sweet courtship, with no more than an occasional kiss, a warm hug - but nothing that set her soul and body ablaze. Not like her senses stirred when she was with Erik.

What was this new fire that burned so deeply? Glowing embers stoked to searing flame at his touch alone. She had given herself over to that passion during the last opera. Even after their moment of intimacy passed, the embers remained lit, only to fuse to life again during the three kisses she'd given him in the lair. Three, to counter the Phantom's darkness with the light of her eternal love. Her fear of the evil spirit had not once severed her bonds to her Angel. And those bonds strengthened with each day, making her restless, causing her to yearn for something she had yet fully to understand.

Perhaps she yet fought darkness; because her fondest wish was to learn and experience and know all that Erik's eyes promised, all that his caresses avowed, all that his words pledged. Earlier in the stable, had he asked or shown any lack of restraint, she would have given herself to him. Wedding or no wedding. What shocked her most was that even though she recognized such a stance as morally amiss, even now she would go to him if he willed it.

_Past all thought of right or wrong ..._

The recollection of that fateful night drifted into her mind, and she closed her eyes with the memory. She had sung those words from the depths of her heart and meant them with _every fiber of her being_. Could something that felt so absolute, so wondrous and freeing as being held in his arms and feeling his mouth take possession of hers, truly lead to something _wrong_? Had she strayed from the tenets of her religious upbringing even to consider the question?

He released a lengthy breath. "Come. We must depart. We have a long journey ahead of us."

She sensed more truth lay beneath those words than was apparent.

**xXx**

At the sudden banging on the door, Madame Giry almost dropped her wine. She inhaled a deep breath then took a sip of the rich red claret to steady her nerves before setting the glass on the sideboard. With unhurried ease, exhibiting a calm she did not feel, she approached the entrance. The banging continued, louder now, and came from the bottom of the door as though someone kicked it with great agitation.

"Patience, s'il vous plait," she said irritably as she swung the door wide - and froze at the sight. An instant later, she reached for her daughter, who lay unnaturally still in the Vicomte's arms.

"Mon Dieu! What has happened?"

Fear threatened to consume her when she saw Meg's face, white as parchment. Her dark lashes lay in crescents against pallid cheeks. Blood crusted and streaked the back of her fair hair. Madame clapped her fingers to her mouth, terrified to utter the silent question that clamored through her mind, demanding release.

"She's not dead," the Vicomte assured, his tone somber. "Though I fear her leg is badly hurt. I've sent a boy to fetch a physician. Where shall I put her? Do you wish me to take her to her room?"

"Oui-oui - come." Madame regained some of her composure and led the way to the small room Meg used. He laid her upon the cot. She did not stir.

"I must fetch water to cleanse the wound." Frantic with worry that beset all questions, Madame hurried to retrieve the needed items.

Soon she returned, laden with a washcloth and pan. The Vicomte had not moved from his position in the doorway. She swept past him, her attention focused solely on her daughter. Though she knew nothing of a chemist's patent medicines, nor did she know how to apply leeches to purify the blood, she had learned a measure of the healing arts from the Maestro in past years. She wished he were here now; his extensive knowledge of medicinal herbs and potions far exceeded hers.

_Oh, Meg ... chère ... what have I done to you?_

She dampened the cloth, wrung it out, and gently pressed it to the nasty swelling at the back of Meg's head. Her heart jumped with a mixture of profound relief and motherly torment when Meg whimpered. Still her eyes did not open.

"Is she going to be all right?" Raoul's voice was quiet.

"I'm not certain."

Madame inspected her inert form and saw that Meg's leg lay twisted in an abnormal position. A fresh torrent of grief swept over her. Her fingertips gently traced the black stocking, and she felt thankful to find no bone protruding.

"How did this happen?" Madame worked to remove Meg's boot. She winced when Meg moaned loudly at her vain effort. Raoul muttered something under his breath, sounding oddly contrite, and moved forward to help, using his dagger to cut the tight lacings.

"I discovered her in the area where the Phantom escaped with Christine. Yet I hardly need tell you that, since you sent her there."

His words were a quiet statement of fact, devoid of censure. Nevertheless they wounded.

"She fell down a hill when I gave chase. Had you been truthful with me last night, this never would have happened."

Though unconscious, Meg let out another tortured moan as they freed her foot, as horribly swollen as her leg. The damaged boot dropped to the planked floor with an accusatory thump, one that Madame heard to the deepest reaches of her soul.

The Vicomte rose to his feet. Retrieving the cloth and wringing it out, she did not spare him a glance. She heard his footsteps cross the planking, followed by the scraping of the lone chair in the room as he dragged it closer. He straddled it, leaning his forearms wearily against the back railing as he faced her.

"Already your silence has cost your daughter harm." His words were quiet, even kind. "The police wonder why she was within the vicinity of the Phantom's last noted locale and will question you soon. I ask, is he really worth all this misery? Cooperate with me, tell me what I wish to know, and I will do my best to see that things go easier for you. I will see to it that neither you nor your daughter is jailed as his accomplices. If you refuse, I cannot help you should the gendarmes arrest you. The matter will be out of my hands."

She lifted her eyes to look at him with steady regard. A curtain of silence descended between them. He flinched slightly and averted his gaze, as if a morsel of shame still existed within his conscience.

"What you suggest is impossible, monsieur. You ask me to commit treason. I would rather spend my days in a windowless cell than to betray my king."

"Your _King!_" Raoul straightened as if she'd shot him and jumped up from the chair. He paced a few steps away then back again. Frustration hardened his jaw. "He is no _king_. Emperor Napoleon was the only true ruler of France. Why must you persist in such absurd fantasies? Are you truly so dim-witted?"

With meticulous movements, she laid the cloth over the pan of water and rose to face him. "Those who speak without forethought concerning issues they do not understand, monsieur, it is they who reveal true ignorance."

He blinked, astonished she should so challenge him. She stood her ground, vexed by his tiresome demands. A rapid knock sounded at the door.

"If you would be so good as to let the physician in when you let yourself out, Vicomte, I would be grateful."

"Christine is in danger, can you not see that?" His lips thinned in resigned irritation when she didn't respond. "Do not think this is finished, Madame. I will find them, as I must. And you _will_ help me."

Once he strode from the room, she released a shaky breath, allowing her defenses to crumble. She sank to the chair he'd vacated. By the determination that had been in his eyes, she possessed no doubt he would do all within his power to bring his last statement to pass.

Before she could collect herself to speak with the physician, a volley of shots fired in the street. She clutched her throat and hurried to see. The Vicomte held the door wide. An elderly man she assumed to be the physician remained on the threshold as though stunned. Both men looked out to the street.

"_Vive la Commune!_" a worker victoriously cried as he ran past.

Long live the Republic.

Raoul and Madame shared a grave look of stunned alarm.

It could mean only one thing. The revolution, of which she had heard whispers in the streets, had now begun.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: Since I based this on the movie, I saw a few honorable traits in the multi-faceted Erik, (even some hesitation/fear when she moved to kiss him in MOTN and he pulled away, and immediately he took her to the chamber with the Christine mannequin in wedding gown. Later he lowered the curtain around her in his bed and didn't "deflower" her – get it? Rose being Christine? Okay, bad pun. Never mind.) - And so, I've written my Erik as a gentleman in that regard (concerning Christine) and bound by the traditions of that time period … **

**Also, something I forgot to address in earlier chapter- the masks in symbolism of movie did seem to pertain to spiritual oppression, but for my story, I knew he had to have one, so just chose to write a different one than shown in movie. A mask not "tainted" by all that went on before.**


	7. Nocturnal Interlude

**xXx**

**Chapter VII**

**xXx**

**.**

Shadows crowded around them, ominous veils devoid of substance that had no beginning or end. Nightfall began to breathe over the earth, choking what remained of daylight. A nocturnal screech from high above ripped apart the night, and Christine started in shock at a bird's raucous cry.

Erik slid his arm up to encircle her waist and hold her more securely. She melted against him, thankful for his touch, having missed it so. Despite that they often rode close, when he didn't lead Orion and walk while she rode, she'd felt the thick, invasive distance between them more strongly than when they lived on different levels at the opera house.

They had been riding for three days. By now she believed the danger lay far behind. Yet Erik kept up his frenzied pace, barely allowing them opportunity to rest, as though a dark spirit from the opera house chased them. Once he backtracked to confuse possible mortal pursuers, also utilizing other methods to lure anyone who might attempt to follow into the wrong direction. Regardless of what Meg told them, Christine could not believe Raoul would endanger their lives, but she sensed Erik put credence in Meg's words. The time to discuss the matter of Raoul had arisen. Still she resisted, uncertain of Erik's reaction to what she would say.

In the distance, Christine noticed the flickering light of a campfire through the trees. She felt Erik tense against her back, proof that he spotted it too. A branch snapped. Pulling on the reins, Erik brought Orion to a quick halt. The unmistakable click of a pistol broke through the eerie stillness.

"Move and you are a dead man, monsieur."

Christine felt shock ripple through Erik that matched her own. The voice that addressed them from the shadowed bushes was a child's. Orion gave a nervous whinny as the rustling of the young menace's approach grew louder.

A girl appeared, no more than twelve, if that. In both hands, she held a pistol aimed at Erik's head. Her face smudged with dirt, her long hair in snarls, she looked as if she hadn't bathed in weeks. Her smock dress appeared just as filthy.

"Why are you on this trail, so far from the road?" she asked, drawing nearer. "And why are you dressed as a bandit?" The pistol wavered. "If you've come to rob me and my papa, we have naught to give." The girl may be young in appearance, but she spoke as one older.

"We have come neither to rob nor to harm." Erik's reassurance came quiet. "We ask only to share your fire, and perhaps a meal. My ..." he paused, "… ward has had no sustenance since midday."

The girl's face scrunched in confusion.

"Food," Erik explained.

"We have naught but stale bread and leeks dug from the ground. The uprising in Paris caused Papa to fear when the troops tried to capture the cannon. We escaped, leaving all we had behind."

"An uprising? In _Paris_?" Erik repeated in shock.

Christine blinked, also stunned. She prayed that Madame Giry and Meg were unharmed.

"How could you not know this? The entire country must know by now. Or maybe you do know." The girl squinted suspiciously and took in his attire, from his soft woolen cloak to his tall leather boots, then did the same with Christine's, the threads of her dark blue cloak as fine. "Be you Marxist or Bonapartist?"

Wishing she had listened more closely when she'd stood at Raoul's elbow as he and his peers discussed politics during the three months she attended social functions with him, Christine worried Erik might give the wrong reply and a lead ball would be their fate yet.

"I am on the side of justice."

"For the people?"

"Yes."

His swift answer seemed to pacify the girl, and she lowered her weapon. "Many of the Bonapartists fled the city the day we did, but they left in fine coaches. I suppose if you were a true noble, you wouldn't be here, with no home to go to and begging for a meal. If my papa gives you leave to stay, you are welcome to our fire." She turned and disappeared into the bushes.

"Do not fear, Christine," Erik whispered near her ear, his breath warm and bringing with it a shiver of pleasure regardless of the worrisome situation. "I will not let harm come to you."

His assurance relieved her though his composure perplexed her when her own heart raced.

As they neared the fire, she saw a simple cart and a mule. A grizzled man sat with his back against a wheel. Both he and the wheel against which he rested were bathed in harsh moonlight, making his jagged features clear. His hooked nose matched his form, hunched with age, and his eyes were pale and watery, light in color, like the girl's, who she could clearly see now.

"Draw near to the fire," he commanded, his voice raspy. "I no longer see well."

Erik gave Christine's shoulder a soothing pat before he dismounted, then helped her down. The man flicked his eyes over Christine, lingered on her hand clutched tightly around Erik's arm, then lifted his appraisal to Erik's masked face. Tense seconds crawled by, lost to the darkness, before the man spoke.

"My daughter tells me you wish to share our fire."

"That is correct," Erik said.

"You have escaped Paris?"

"We have left the city."

Christine glanced at Erik, thinking his answer hid their true reason for escape. She hoped these people failed to realize that truth.

"Why?" the man insisted.

"My reasons are of a personal nature and do not stem from the revolution."

"You are a socialist?"

"I believe in what is just."

The old man frowned. "And what is 'just'?"

Erik took a few seconds to answer. "Perhaps a more suitable question would be to ask what is unjust," he countered. "It is unjust for another to dictate one's actions and blind him so that he has no power to choose, to deceive him, to control him, and to make the innocents suffer through the course of his contemptible acts."

Christine felt his pain, heard the trace of it in his voice. She knew he referred to the dark spirit's former hold on his life and not the revolt. Gently she squeezed his arm in consolation. His other hand moved to cover hers.

"You speak like a noble, with the understanding of a peasant," the man mused. "A blueblood with personal knowledge of such words…"

Christine drew a quiet, unsteady breath at the man's apt reasoning; Erik remained silent, not giving anything away.

"A strange thing…" The man eyed them both another interminable moment then shrugged. "As you say, it is unjust to make the innocent suffer, and your woman seems weary. You are welcome to stay. Celeste, fetch soup for our guests."

Erik escorted Christine to a spot by the fire farthest away from the old man then took a seat beside her. The girl hurried to do as bidden, bringing both Christine and Erik a bowl of watery porridge from a pot that sat atop the low flames. Christine drank the bland concoction more from hunger than desire. For the moment, it appeared, they were safe, but the news of Paris troubled her.

**xXx**

"Mère ..."

Meg's voice came faint, fearful. The room lay in semi-darkness and a lone candle burned nearby.

Her mother moved to her side. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she brushed her hair away from her damp forehead. "Shhh. All is well."

_Well?_ Everything in Meg hurt, her leg worst of all. "What happened?"

"You have been asleep a long time. The physician says you will recover. You had an accident, a fall, but you will be well again."

The stark memory of Raoul finding her and giving chase pushed through the clouds in Meg's mind. "I brought them Orion, just as we planned. I watched them ride off; they're safe, Mère. The Vicomte couldn't have found them. I disposed of all evidence of their stay. At the stable. Where they were."

"You have done well, my pet. Speak of this no more."

Meg struggled to sit up and gasped as fire singed through her right leg. She dared not move for fear of a recurrence. "It hurts so!" Moisture burned her eyes and rolled down her cheeks as she glanced at the wool blanket that shielded her legs.

Tears glazed her mother's eyes as well. The sight caused Meg alarm; she had never seen her mother cry.

"You must rest and regain your strength, chère. The fall, it was very bad. Here, drink some wine to ease the pain." She held Meg's head up, tippling her own glass so she could drink.

"Mère, what are you not telling me?" Meg's voice came soft as she closed her eyes, again wishing to succumb to weariness but fighting it.

"Tomorrow. All else can wait until tomorrow." She smoothed the hair from Meg's forehead and kissed it. "For now, sleep."

Meg drowsily nodded and Madame waited until Meg's breathing grew even before she quit the room. Relief rushed through her that the fever was broken, which had held Meg bound for three days. On the heels of that thought, she knew ironic gratitude that she could suspend the tragic news fated to destroy her daughter's cherished aspirations.

With a shaky breath, she moved to pour herself a fresh glass of wine and took a seat among the pillows on the divan. She drank all of the claret, relying on the mellowing effect of the alcohol to calm her shattered nerves.

Shouts resounded through the streets, as they did almost daily, and she worried about their safety. The troops had tried to capture the cannon the commoners had gathered, initially brought in when the newly organized National Guard had procured the weapons as a defense against the Prussians. But they'd been unsuccessful. Women as well as men had approached the soldiers, fraternizing with them. And though the people were triumphant and the soldiers didn't attack, whispers of disquiet breathed veiled warnings to Madame Giry's soul. Concealed within the trappings of misty truths, all was not as it appeared. She knew this with every fiber of the woman she was, and the woman she had been.

Always, she'd felt an intuition about such issues, stemming from her former role as a servant to darkness before her advent into light. She could sense a ghostly evil lying in wait, silently mocking the shouts of victory as the workers overtook the city and red flags of The Commune fluttered from buildings in defiance of the old Napoleonic regime.

Since the government withdrew its troops to Versailles and the Communards actually let them go, many of the wealthy and nobles, as well as some of the fearful, had swarmed from Paris en masse. The workers had taken over, embittered by shortage of food and empty promises of the government, eager to form a socialist republic now that Prussia had defeated France and Napoleon had fallen.

Madame had been so mired in the plight concerning their own little world of the opera house kingdom that she'd paid scant attention to gossip of dissent outside its doors. Now that such a bleak day had dawned she had no choice but to confront her options. In truth, there were none. To escape to Spain and follow her Maestro and Christine would have been her preference. She wanted nothing to do with The Commune. But Meg could never endure such a journey. Nor did Madame have a beast or cart upon which her daughter could ride.

Fresh tears welled in her eyes for her only child. Dear Meg. Not yet seventeen and never to dance again. Just as Christine desired nothing but Music, both the man and his song, Meg wanted nothing but to dance. The physician offered little hope. The dislocation in her knee was severe. He had pushed the bone into place, but didn't foresee that it would acquire sufficient healing for her to continue the rigors demanded of the ballet. She might never walk again.

Madame closed her eyes upon remembering the physician's grim pronouncement. A tear dampened her cheek. She whisked it away with her fingertips and inhaled a deep breath. Moving to light all five candles in the candelabra, she hoped to dispel the deepening dusk that shadowed the room. A pool of muted golden light soon encased her, yet the black despair in her soul would not retreat. And the wine did nothing to mellow her anguish.

Stern to a fault, she still possessed a mother's heart. She ached for her daughter's happiness, and had tried to be both father and mother to her when Meg's father denied them both. When everyone denied them, except for her maestro in his musical kingdom, which she came to regard as the only true home she'd known. No longer her home ... now a shell of its former glory ... condemned ... forsaken ...

Unbidden, her eyes went to a faded stack of bound letters on the desk. She stared at them a moment longer, then forced herself to turn away.

**xXx**

Once Celeste and her grandfather retired for the night and the old man's snores quietly rumbled inside the cart, Christine approached Erik where he had moved on the opposite side of the fire once he'd tended Orion. She lowered herself beside him. He glanced at her, then back into the flames. She put her hand to his sleeve and felt his muscle tense. At least he didn't pull away, and for that she was grateful.

"I fear for Madame Giry and Meg's safety," she began. "I feel so helpless. I wish we could do something for them."

"Yes." He nodded distantly.

"Perhaps once we are in Seville we should send for them. She's been a mother to me, and Meg is like a sister. They have both served us well."

"I agree."

She bit the inside corner of her lip. "Perhaps, until then, Raoul could help them or at least look in on them to make certain they are both well. Would a letter get through to Paris if we send one?"

His eyes snapped toward her. Even in the dark, she could see them blaze with green fire. "_Raoul_ deceived us!" He sneered the name, his words coming low, fierce. "He betrayed us!"

"You cannot ask me to believe that. There must be some explanation for what happened - "

"The explanation is obvious!" Erik swiftly rose from the ground and flicked back his cloak in displeasure. He paced away then swung around to look at her. "You heard what Meg said. He cannot be trusted. He betrayed us to the gendarme!"

"She must have misunderstood..." She looked askance. "Raoul wouldn't do such a thing. He couldn't..."

"What is he to you, Christine?" Erik's voice came more quietly. Pained. Dangerous. "Perhaps you have a hidden agenda for wishing to contact the Vicomte? Was he indeed your lover?"

Incredulous anger brought her quickly up to face him. "How _dare_ you speak to me in such a manner! What more must I do to prove that it's you I love? That it's _always been you!_"

Behind the black bandit mask, his eyes widened in shock at her uncharacteristic outburst, but she'd had enough.

"You won't allow me to come near you, won't allow me to touch you, and when I do, you withdraw from me! Give me the reason for that, if you will," she demanded.

"I have more than adequately explained my reasons."

She waved his words aside, the pent-up frustration of so many days bursting forth from her tongue in quiet fury. "_Always_, you have an excuse. Yet even before we left the opera house you ran from me. How many times, Erik? How many times did you push me away after you entreated me to come to you?"

"You bring up issues better left forgotten."

She ignored his warning. "I speak not only of the Phantom. His darkness isn't the only barrier you erected between us. _Four weeks _you waited before you came to me. I was frantic with worry, thinking perhaps you misunderstood my message when I gave you the ring. Thinking perhaps you didn't hear my plea for you to come join me."

"Christine, don't - " His voice was hoarse.

"Why, Erik?" She stepped closer. "Why do you always push me away? Is it that you no longer care? Was I only a pupil to you, and now that the opera kingdom is no more, your interest in me has waned too?"

"You **_know_** that's not true." His breathing came ragged. His jaw grew rigid as he fought for control…

But she didn't want his control, and the desire for his touch drew her forward until she could feel the heat flame from his body.

"Then show me what _is _true. Show me, as I showed you that night."

"You have no idea what you ask of me." His words came out in a low growl as a flame of a different sort kindled in his eyes.

"I ask for the same as I give to you." She looked deeply at him. "Everything."

The quiet appeal in her voice moved him, but the fear of rejection glittering in her eyes broke down his every defense. Powerless to resist the majesty of Christine, he reached for her and crushed her to him. Buried his face in her thick curls. Breathed in the scent of her, his beautiful rose.

She let out a soft gasping sob of relief, her arms locking about his waist. Erik closed his eyes in tormented delight.

How long had he denied himself the pleasure of her closeness! How long had he fought the passion that simmered just beneath the surface throughout these past days and nights of sweet agony in her continual presence ... But no more, no more ...

He pulled slightly away and pressed his trembling hands against either side of her breasts, running them slowly down to her waist and hips in worship, needing to touch her again, to feel all of her supple form beneath his seeking hands.

Her eyes fluttered closed and she lifted her face to his in entreaty. His need of her just as overwhelming, he pulled her hard against him. His lips found her parted ones, possessing them with tender fierceness. Their kisses gave and demanded as strains of exultant music filled their minds and souls. He broke away to graze the delicate lobe of her ear with his teeth, to taste the silkiness of her neck with his tongue. She gasped in delight, her fingers digging into his shoulders then lifting to tangle in his hair.

"Christine ... Christine," he murmured hoarsely.

His mouth trailed lower still, over the graceful line of her bared shoulder, and beyond. Until the ruffles of her low-cut bodice impeded his warm quest of her silken skin, and her breath caught in stunned pleasure.

Eager for more of her sweetness, he reclaimed her lips, wrapping one hand in her hair at the nape, his heart pounding as furiously as hers. He pulled her head back and his tongue probed in hungered exploration the honeyed recess of her mouth. Drinking deeply, he slaked his thirst for her, having too long denied himself refreshment. With his other hand at her hips he drew her closer still, aching to draw her unto himself until they were fully one. Taking them to a place beyond all reason, beyond all that was right, beyond all hope of turning back...

A harsh fit of coughing from somewhere in the nether regions of the earth splintered through the consuming haze of passion clouding Erik's mind. He broke their embrace and looked into her eyes, darkened with desire. Their breathing came rapid as they stared at one another, thoroughly shaken. Each of them knowing that if he moved toward her again, or she toward him, they would most assuredly step past the point of no return.

Time stood suspended, as breathless as they, wrapped up in a current of electricity as intense as lightning.

From behind the cart, the old man coughed, cursed, and coughed again. The sound of him rising decided their fate for them.

Erik closed his eyes and waited until he regained enough control to speak. Even then his voice came out raspy. "Never again doubt my love or need of you, Christine. You are my sole reason for existing." His eyes searched her glistening ones, her glowing face, her lips swollen from his kisses. Unable to refrain, he brushed his fingers against her cheek, aching to touch her once more. "But neither again seek what I should not yet - _cannot yet - _give you. I am only a mere mortal. I am not a god who has the strength to resist you, my alluring goddess."

He turned and strode away, leaving Christine to stare after him, shaken and without words.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: Thank you for the great reviews! :) **

**I know at times I use both the English and French terms of greetings or endearments (my Angel; mon Ange, etc)- I usually write it how it sounds best in that instance rather than rigidly sticking to a certain way. **


	8. A Change in the Air

**xXx**

**Chapter VIII**

**xXx**

**.**

With the Revolution underway, Raoul exercised caution when he walked the city's wide streets, even going so far as to don common clothes of the working class. His mother desired to flee and go abroad, to Switzerland this time, but a trip of that magnitude was out of the question. Raoul's father, weary since his last bout of influenza, opposed leaving the estate. The Comte insisted they lived far enough from Paris that should violence erupt within the city it would have no effect on them; while the Comtesse feared that the Marxists would extend their rebellion outside of Paris borders and attack the noblesse who lived in the neighboring countryside - namely all who resided in the de Chagny household. Her fears were unfounded, of course, but no sound reasoning would placate his flighty mother.

Whether they would or would not go, Raoul made up his mind to stay. He would not abdicate his mission, _would not_ concede defeat, and somewhere, whether it be the filthy taverns in the rundown district, or the nicer establishments across the city, near the damaged theater, he felt certain to find a clue that would lead him to Christine. Nor had he relinquished the idea of extracting information from Madame Giry, though he remained absent during Meg's convalescence.

Guilt was the whisper in his ear. Had he not chased the girl, she would never have come to harm. He had heard the physician's report, having run across the man's path during his search: Never to dance again, and if she did walk, it would be with a limp.

Raoul closed his eyes, working to push away the shame. _It is unfortunate, but sometimes people must suffer to benefit the greater good._ The cavalier words his father drilled into him since childhood, words meant to describe the undeserving and those of a lower station in life, did little to appease the burden created by one young woman's suffering. She was hardly innocent of her crime to aid and abet a felon, a murderer, but neither did she deserve so stiff a punishment, one that would last a lifetime.

With a frown, he pulled the long outer coat around him, and strode toward the door.

"Raoul, is that you in the foyer?" His mother's voice came from the parlor. "Come here, dear, we have a guest."

By her tone, his mother seemed in a cheerful disposition today, as opposed to her crying spell the previous evening, when she lamented to servants and family alike that they would all surely be murdered in their beds by revolutionists. But then she flitted from emotion to emotion with the swiftness of a hummingbird hovering from flower to flower.

As Raoul entered the ornate room, she turned to him, her round face wreathed in smiles. He bent low to kiss her cheek in greeting then turned to see an older woman, regal in stature, who stood a short distance from them with her back to the wide window. Heavy threads of silver gleamed in her upswept brown hair.

"Raoul, I have told you about your aunt, I do believe. She married your father's older brother, Francois, God rest his soul. She has come from Rouen for an extended stay with us."

Raoul gave a slight bow in deference. "Dowager Comtesse de Chagny, it is a pleasure."

She moved toward him with an air of confidence and held out her hand. He took it and kissed it. "Vicomte, you are even more appealing than when you were a boy with golden curls."

Raoul smiled politely at her remark, which held a touch of wistfulness. From his mother's gossip, he knew the woman was childless. Even as she spoke, a tinge of sorrow clouded her gray-green eyes.

"Why are you dressed in such an absurd manner?" his mother asked, just noticing the shabby coat and woolen trousers he borrowed from the stableman. "You're not going into Paris again?" Her mouth firmed. "Oh, Raoul, non! I will not have it. Why you will not cease in this hunt for the masked man is beyond my ability to understand. Surely he no longer resides in the city?"

"Masked man?" the dowager countess asked.

"A most amusing story, though somewhat morbid. Raoul, do tell your aunt the details."

"I doubt the lady dowager would be interested." Raoul had no concept of how his mother supposed that the tragedy he and Christine suffered at the hands of a madman could be considered 'amusing', but neither he nor his father were ever able to understand her vacant reasoning.

"I would be most interested," the elder woman countered.

The tilt of her chin and determined set to her shoulders made the dowager seem more like a reigning empress than a displaced countess. She appeared to fit the role more aptly than his capricious mother. His aunt's steady regard made Raoul feel more boy than man. The notion didn't please him. He was unaccustomed to women of strong character.

"At the opera house, where my parents and I were the new patrons, lived a crazed madman. His home lay deep within the bowels of the theater. I was told he first came to reside there when he was a boy after he escaped from gypsies upon killing one of them. He's killed more than once, and would have murdered me as well, but at the last moment he set me free." Memory of the cause for Raoul's abrupt release and the passionate kisses he had been forced to witness made him unconsciously clench his hand. "Earlier that same night he sought revenge on the entire opera house and made his escape."

"Indeed." The word came soft, clipped, and he wondered if he'd somehow wounded his aunt's sensibilities.

"Weeks ago, he abducted the young woman to whom I was engaged. Miss Christine Daae. I seek to find her and bring him to justice." He noticed his mother's swift glance in his direction but ignored it. "So you see, that is why I must quit your charming company and return to Paris. I offer my apologies for my abrupt manner, but I cannot stay."

"But it's not safe in Paris for any nobleman," his mother argued. "Not since this horrid revolution. You'll be killed!"

"I am disguised; all will be well." He smiled at her in reassurance. "I am equipped to take care of myself, Mother."

"You said that he was masked," the dowager inserted. "Is he a bandit?"

"The right side of his face is grossly misshapen and he wears a mask to cover the deformity. Because of this, he shouldn't be difficult to find."

"Oh my," his mother exclaimed, pressing her hand to her heart in shock, as if just hearing the story for the first time though she'd heard it twice before.

The dowager stared at him a moment, her lips parting in alarm, then swiftly turned toward the window. "How horrible."

Thinking he misjudged her strength of mind and said too much, offending her with his crass talk better suited to a gentleman's study, he made his farewells. "I look forward to visiting with you, when I return," he said. "But I must go while the day is young."

"Of course." Her faint words reached him as she continued to stare out the window.

"Oh, Raoul, do be careful. They have those horrid cannon, and I cannot abide the thought of you being blown to smithereens." His mother gave a little shudder. For all her dramatic tendencies and aptitude to blow events out of proportion, he loved her dearly.

"I assure you, Mother, I cannot abide the thought either." His words were light. "Do not fear, I shall exercise caution."

She linked her hand through his arm and walked him to the door. "Can I say nothing to make you reconsider?"

"It is my duty," he said simply, patting her hand.

"Your duty?"

He gave her a faint smile in parting. She would never understand and he was bound by an oath of silence. Even had he wanted to explain his mission, he was not permitted to do so.

At the stable a simple wagon awaited him. It would be suicide to appear in a coach inside the city, or on as fine a beast as either Saturn or Mephisto. Before taking his seat on the wagon hooked to a mule, he stroked both white stallions' muzzles. "Soon, my friends. Soon you will again aid me. When I learn word of Christine, we shall bring her back home, where she belongs." Mephisto whinnied as if in approval.

The Phantom would steer clear of cities or villages, of that Raoul was certain. He had sent notices with the Phantom's description to surrounding districts. Raoul preferred not to credit the scoundrel with any good traits, but assumed he was intelligent enough to realize his crimes would be broadcast to outlying regions as well, and thereby avoid them. To run like the hunted beast he was, and lose himself in the wilderness. If indeed they'd left Paris. Because of this, he was assured a marriage ceremony could not have yet taken place. In that regard, Christine remained safe.

Raoul dared not think beyond that.

**xXx**

The moment Erik woke, he knew something was amiss.

_Christine!_

His first consideration for his beloved, he pushed himself up off the cold ground, noting with relief that she lay safe and asleep nearby. He then looked in the direction of the cart.

It was gone.

Squinting against the crimson sun just starting to peak over the horizon, he studied the parallel rows of indentations from the wheels and tried to establish his bleary thoughts. Incredulous alarm made him swiftly reach for his money pouch.

It, too, had disappeared.

He swore, flinging back his cape to investigate and see if the drawstring purse had shifted behind him though he knew such an action impossible. The strap from which it had hung was cut, and he cursed again. He never should have allowed himself to give into his exhaustion and sleep! Never should have trusted the two wretched thieves!

Christine sat up groggily and blinked her eyes. "Erik? Whatever is the matter?"

"The fool and his whelp have robbed us!"

"Robbed us?"

"While we slept, the girl stole my money pouch. She must have been the one!"

Christine only stared as if frozen.

"All the gold coinage I had, enough to see us into Spain and ensure our means of support – all of it gone." He briefly closed his eyes at the assault of the next recollection. "The ring is gone as well. I kept it inside the pouch, so it would be safe." His laugh was derisive. "Safe? With no escort to lead, and no idea of where we're going, except to ride south. And now no means of procuring food or shelter when they become available to us." He kicked dirt at the smoldering fire, brutally extinguishing it.

Christine bowed her head, silent.

Swiftly Erik moved to saddle Orion. At least they had not stolen his horse, a grave mistake on their part. The fiends! He would find them, and they would pay…

"Mon Ange..."

He stiffened at hearing the name, instantly recognizing the cause for it. Whenever Christine wished to reach him during one of his dark moods, she called him her Angel. Likely hoping that if she compared him to a heavenly being, he would then act the part.

Refusing to look at her, he tossed the saddle over Orion's back and strapped the girth. She rested a tentative hand against his sleeve. Struck motionless by her gentle touch, his actions stilled.

"What do you mean to do?" she asked. "She is only a child, and he an old man."

He wrested his arm away and spun to face her. "They are thieves, Christine! Shall I turn a blind eye to what they have done simply because of their age? Do you wish me to ignore the fact that they've robbed us, and do nothing about it? Not even to seek them out and retrieve what is rightfully ours?"

"No." She hesitated. "But neither do I feel you should go after them, not when you're like this."

"Like this?" His laugh was mocking. "You mean when I act like the Phantom? As one obsessed."

"That's not what I meant at all. Your anger is well justified."

"Yet perhaps this is more than mere anger. Perhaps the darkness is taking hold again," he pressed, helpless irritation fueling his desire to deride her quiet words. "Perhaps the darkness is forever a part of me and I can never be freed. It haunts me wherever I go."

"I refuse to believe that."

"Yet how can you deny what is apparent?"

"What is apparent is not always what's real. Have we not both discovered that truth?" Her expression remained determined. "You can fight this dark hold on the past that constantly plagues your mind, and I will help you."

"How, Christine?" He shook his head. "How can you help me when I don't even know who I am any longer? The colors of my existence have long been secreted in the box I left behind, before I destroyed my kingdom."

"Then it is time to unearth them once more."

He lifted his brows in shock. "Go back to Paris?"

"No, I mean unearth them from here." She placed her hand over his heart. "The colors rest inside you. Not in some music box. At present, they lie dormant, waiting to be freed."

The warmth of her hand against his chest both soothed Erik and made his heart pound. The steadiness in her eyes disarmed him, astonished him. From what source had she divulged this rare inner strength? With each day that passed, more of the exciting, bold woman emerged and less of the naïve, timid girl surfaced.

Christine smiled as though reading his mind. "Come, my Angel. Let us break the fast with the cheese and bread we have remaining; it is enough. Once you have calmed we can pursue them. They could not have gone far with only their cart and mule. And we have Orion." She moved her palm from his chest to take his hand.

"Come," she said enticingly.

Erik slowly exhaled and relaxed, burying his vengeful thoughts for the present. With a slight nod of accord, he allowed her to lead him away from Orion. Suddenly he halted, his attention going to the north sky.

A thick boiling black mass of a cloud hovered over the land, a cloud that had followed them for days. Though still distant, it appeared closer than before, unlike any thundercloud he had seen.

Christine looked at him curiously, but he only gave her a stiff smile and continued back to the smothered campfire. Outwardly he exhibited calm, but inside, every nerve jolted taut to awareness.

Erik had retreated from darkness, his enemy companion since childhood, but now he sensed great evil loomed near. An evil more devastating than being robbed of one's gold. This evil demanded all, and requested nothing. It seized. It destroyed. Erik recognized it. He sensed it. This evil belonged to the Phantom spirit, which he had come to know as the dark angel of death.

**xXx**


	9. Unexpected Visitors

**Chapter IX**

**xXx  
**

**.**

"You must eat so that you can regain your strength." Madame Giry tried to persuade Meg to abandon her stubborn resolve, but no amount of coaxing would sway her daughter. For days, ever since she'd learned of her infirmity, Meg displayed an indifference that alarmed her mother. She wouldn't eat, she wouldn't speak. She only stared ahead and did nothing. It was as though she willed herself to die.

Torn between pulling Meg into a fearful embrace and giving rein to her mother's heart, or forcing broth down her throat to fight Meg's vexing obstinacy, Madame did neither. She withdrew the spoon from near her daughter's clamped lips and set it in the bowl. Gentle persistence had achieved nothing. Neither did mild threats. To one who had, by all appearances, given up hope, intimidation proved useless. Still, Madame nurtured a flicker of conviction, weak as it was. Meg had not perished, and while Madame continued to breathe, she would do all within her power to resurrect her daughter's will to live.

"By now the Maestro and Christine should be nearing Spain." Madame relied on Meg's close bond with Christine to light a spark of interest. "It is thanks to you they escaped."

Not a flicker of expression changed Meg's countenance. Her face remained blank.

"Would that we could also escape what is happening in this city. I do not like it, chère. The revolution has the workers ecstatic and there is talk of great reforms. Yet I sense something is amiss, something … dark."

Still no response.

Madame withheld a hopeless sigh and set the bowl on a nearby table, continuing her one-sided conversation. "I hear the Vicomte still haunts Paris for word of the Maestro's whereabouts. I cannot imagine that he will be successful. I was very careful whom to tell of our plans—" As Madame said the last, her attention drifted to Meg, and her news halted in abrupt surprise.

Meg still stared straight ahead, but her eyes had narrowed, the corners of her mouth pulled down in an angry frown.

So! Mention of the Vicomte birthed a reaction. Before Madame could think beyond that astounding discovery, a brisk knock sounded at the door.

Once she opened it, she worked to hide her irritation.

"Vicomte, this is indeed a surprise." She spoke the words in jest. She had known he would not surrender his cause so quickly and expected his presence long before this, but now felt weary and unarmed, having had no sleep the previous night.

"Madame Giry." He inclined his head in grave acknowledgement. "I told you I would return."

The timing of his visit was unusual, to say the least, since she'd just been speaking of him. Or … perhaps it was ideal. She narrowed her eyes in studied reflection. Had fate been the force to encourage this visit and providence arranged it for her benefit?

She opened the door to him, bound by protocol rather than a desire to spar with words. The moment he entered, he initiated his attack. "Have you given any thought to our previous meeting?"

"Regarding my daughter?" Madame asked brightly, knowing full well that wasn't what he meant. "How kind of you to come and inquire after her health, Vicomte."

Thrown off balance by his lack of decorum, his face achieved a pale hue of red. Perhaps she wasn't as unarmed as she thought. She almost felt sorry for him.

"Er, how is Miss Giry?"

"As well as can be expected." Before he could recover, she broached her next words as if she'd just thought of the idea. "I should think a visit from you would be welcome."

"Welcome?" His eyes were bewildered, even the slightest bit panicked.

Madame worked hard not to chuckle. This was going better than she had anticipated.

"Why, of course. You saved her and brought her back to me, oui?"

Before he could regain his bearings from that silken remark, she led the way to the back room.

"Madame Giry, that's not why I came!"

She turned slightly, a finger to her lips. "There is no need to raise your voice, monsieur. I assure you, I can hear very well."

Entering the back room, she looked at the despondent figure on the cot. A moment's uncertainty made her pause. For the first time she realized that to bring the Vicomte to her daughter might inflict more harm than good. But this state of living death Meg embraced surely could be no worse than anything he might have to say.

"Chère, we have a guest. I will bring some wine."

"I desire no wine," Raoul argued, coming in behind her.

"Non? But I do." With a sly smile she left them, her skirts swishing in her haste.

Tense seconds elapsed. Adrift at the clever way Meg's mother had manipulated the situation, Raoul stared across the room at the accusatory brown eyes that glared back.

_Blast you, Madame._

"So, Vicomte ..." Meg's voice came hoarse as she pushed herself up against the pile of pillows and winced. "To what do I owe this dubious honor? Have you come to finish me off?"

"I never intended for any of this to happen." He swung his hand toward her damaged leg as he spoke, swallowed hard, looked away. "I would never cause a woman harm. Would never dream of committing such a vile act."

"No? I fail to understand your reasoning. You wound Christine every day that you persist in your mad chase."

The rapier thrust of her pointed comment was undeserved and unexpected. "I seek only to protect Christine! I would die before I'd cause her harm."

She shook her head in disbelief. "You truly cannot see that it's only harm you cause, can you? Do you actually think she'll forgive your treachery should you discover their whereabouts and then drag away the man she loves to die at the gallows?" He grimaced at her choice of words, but she went on. "It would break her heart."

He let out a frustrated sigh. "Your concern for your friend is admirable. Yet once again you fail to understand—"

"'Fail to understand'? What is it I fail to understand?" Her words cut him off, coming more strongly, building up momentum as she went. "Daily you haunt the taverns for news so that you can hunt Christine and her husband down. Mère told me. The police have abandoned all _their_ efforts, even questioned _your_ logic, and still you persist. You stalk the streets in disguise. You attack the unwary. Perhaps it is you who is the true madman, Vicomte, and not the man you seek."

He worked to keep his voice level. "Careful, Miss Giry."

"For what purpose must I exercise caution, monsieur? Because I do not know my place?" Her eyes narrowed and she let out a humorless laugh. "You have taken from me all that mattered. My dance. My dreams. Do you presume that I would care if I speak out of turn? You can take nothing more from me than you already have. Bring on the gendarmes – throw me in jail! Do as you wish, Vicomte, _for I no longer care_!"

Her breath came fast in her agitation. He opened his mouth to respond, but quickly she turned her face away from him, to the wall, as if in dismissal.

A clear droplet glistened and slid down her wan cheek, abruptly silencing any counterattack he might have initiated. Shame slithered from the depths of his soul, where he'd trapped it, at seeing that solitary tear. The sight of little Meg so helpless and broken, within and without, caused him far greater disturbance and disarmed him more effectively than when she'd unsheathed her claws to rip his character apart.

He worked to keep his voice level. "I assure you, Meg Giry, neither you nor your mother have reason to fear my reprisal a third time. I'll not darken your doorway again." With those words, he quietly made his exit.

**xXx**

Madame smiled with satisfaction to hear the outside door close. Her hunch paid off well.

She replaced the wine bottle on its tray, unopened. Manipulating the Vicomte's visit to accomplish her purpose didn't produce even a morsel of shame within her conscience. All that had been crucial, all that she cared about, was snapping Meg out of the desolate stupor in which she'd been trapped for days. And her plan succeeded far better than she earlier supposed. She had listened with gratification to hear Meg's fiery retorts to the Vicomte, inwardly applauding her daughter. At one time, Madame might have sternly corrected Meg on such unsuitable behavior toward a gentleman of rank. Today she felt nothing but pride at Meg's dressing down of the pompous Vicomte de Chagny.

She bustled into the room – "I see that our guest has departed?" – and halted, grabbing her throat, when Meg only stared at the wall. Surely she wouldn't retreat within herself again! Surely this hadn't all been for naught?

Meg slowly turned her head toward her mother. Her eyes were sad, but no longer despondent. A slight sparkle gleamed in their depths as her gaze lowered to Madame's empty hands. "And I see, Mère, that you have no wine."

Madame chuckled softly. Meg gave a small answering smile.

Her mind was sharp and quick. Whether her body was active or lame, she possessed an indomitable spirit that would carry her through whatever thorny days lay in wait, Madame could now see this. No doubt, Meg's recovery would be difficult, but for the first time since the accident Madame felt the first stirrings of hope.

"The Vicomte is a fool, and he is determined," Meg said quietly. "He will not refrain from his plan to capture the Maestro and reclaim Christine. He will continue with his pursuit, he will question everyone in Paris if need be, and God only knows what will happen if he finds them."

Madame didn't question her daughter's declaration. Meg had an intuitive gift regarding her ability to discern situations and people, almost prophetic. And while Madame feared for the royal couple, the Maestro was a genius and knew how to remain hidden, had done so for more than twenty-two years. It was the expression in Meg's eyes that caused her the greater alarm. For as her daughter spoke of the Vicomte, a look of pure hatred made her young eyes grow old.

**xXx**

While Father slept, Celeste pulled out the drawstring purse from where it lay hidden beneath her blouse. She weighed it in her hand before opening it and smiled with satisfaction to hear the coins clink together inside. Her eyes widened when she stared at the treasure trove of gold within. Then she noticed the ring.

Her mouth dropped open as she withdrew the gold band. The strong sun hit a circle of round white jewels, blinding her with rays of light that dazzled. She blinked in awe at her find.

When she'd carefully cut away the pouch from the sleeping nobleman – and she was sure the man must be noble to dress so fine and talk so proper – she'd never expected this! The wealth inside the bag was proof that he didn't support the revolution, as he'd led them to believe, and bore the sin of being a Bonapartist aristocrat pig. Without a doubt, so much gold would hire the physician her father needed and buy them better transport to get them safely to her aunt's home.

Somehow, she must convince Father they should travel in the opposite direction, to the home of the sister he despised, or risk capture by the masked man. Father wouldn't be pleased that Celeste had again resorted to thievery, and a beating might be her fate yet, but surely when he saw the prize he would reconsider. She could buy a fine horse in the next village they came to, as fine as the one they had left at the campsite. That would please him. Their mule was old and ornery, but at least it had given her little trouble earlier. Her father, on the other hand, had been a different matter.

_Quietly_ rousing him before dawn — with a warning not to make a sound and a lie about hearing men's voices in the distance — she'd found to be near impossible. Since the Prussians' invasion a year before, everyone was an enemy to Father and she'd needed to convince him, though he was blind as a bat, to lie still in the wagon bed and not attempt to grab his rifle and shoot at what he couldn't see. When she had approached the beautiful black stallion belonging to the man in the mask, the beast snorted and gave a nervous whinny. Fearful its master might somehow awaken she'd quickly abandoned her plan to take the magnificent beast in the mule's stead. Her father never brought up the fate of their visitors, likely having forgotten them in his half-wakened daze.

Celeste knew a moment's panic that the mysterious masked Erik might even now be in pursuit. He didn't seem the type to surrender easily, and if he was a nobleman, it could go badly for her if he caught up to them. Only in Paris did the nobles no longer have power. She had to persuade Father that they simply _must _loop around and go north instead of south, the opposite direction from where he told Erik they were traveling.

She had ensured that both he and the woman slept long and deep by slipping into their soup a goodly amount of the sleeping elixir her father used when his coughing kept him awake at nights. With the stout tang of the wild onions cloaking the flavor, the potion was undetectable. Yet she'd been surprised the elixir took so long to work and feared that she'd not used enough as, with huge eyes, she eavesdropped on their quiet argument ending abruptly as he grabbed his "ward" and pulled her close. With her heart pounding all the while, her mind and limbs frozen in shock, Celeste watched his large hands stroke the woman's body, witnessed their hungry kisses, heard the woman's soft moans. Suddenly he broke their embrace and they stared at one another, speaking too quietly for Celeste to hear. He then walked away leaving his ward to stare after him for some time before, unsteady, she sank to the earth and soon laid down, at last falling asleep. He returned moments later, drowsy, as he, too, stumbled to the fire and stretched out near his ward, no part of his long length touching her. But he had looked at the woman with such intense longing, the memory of it made Celeste's heart pound. He had stared until at last, his lids had also grown heavy, his arm no longer supporting him, as he, too, fell to his back, unconscious, a victim of the elixir.

Celeste had wasted no time in divesting him of his pouch, waking her father and making their escape, carefully covering their tracks, as her dear poor brother once taught her to do when he was alive and had shown her how to creep about like a shadow and steal from the nobles. But the elixir would have worn off after several hours. The masked man would have been long awake by this time. And angry.

A river now separated them. Surely that was enough…

Quenching her fears, she stared at the ring, moving it to catch the light. Awed, she counted eleven round stones and noted the blue and white fire that leapt from them as though alive. The sun caused the gems to blind her with brilliance, and a strange unease settled over Celeste. The ring both captivated and frightened her, as if it held some strange, mystical power ... as strange and mysterious as the man to whom it once belonged.

She wasn't sure if it was a burst of anxious imagination or sudden misgiving that swiftly caused the band of gold to burn hot in her hands. The heat increased, singeing her fingers, and she dropped the ring back into the leather pouch in shock, wrenching the drawstrings tightly closed.

She would guide the mule north, with or without Father's approval. Maybe she could convince him to rest in the wagon bed and he would never know the difference until they reached Rouen.

**xXx**

Christine kept silent as they traveled further south and the late afternoon sun beat down on their heads.

Ever since Erik was unable to track down the thieves, he'd been in a foul mood. He rarely spoke, barely looked at her. If he did speak, his words were impersonal. The awkward distance seemed to span greater lengths than before their passionate kiss, which felt as if it occurred another lifetime ago. His kiss had both powerfully shaken Christine and brought her enlightenment. She now understood so much more than she had, and when the time was right, when he was again congenial toward her, she would speak to Erik and make him understand. Somehow, she must make him understand.

Two difficult days had passed since Erik discovered his purse of gold missing. Endless hours of worry had advanced on Christine, besieging her heart. At times she felt inadequate in her desire to lead him in this world he'd once forsaken, and wondered if she were truly up to the task. One moment she possessed the strength of a confident woman, the next she knew only the helplessness of an uncertain child.

Twice she spoke to him of the Light and the ruler of it, but he remained silent. She felt so lacking, inept and uncertain of what to say. Her father had raised her to acknowledge the Almighty's existence and power, that without it man was mere dust, a concept still difficult to understand. She knew so very little, Father's death stealing from her further teachings of his wisdom. How could she lead anyone when she felt equipped only to follow? Yet how could she not? The task had fallen solely to her, there was no one else, and she loved Erik deeply enough to gently persist. He'd had no one to tell him of such matters and deserved to hear them at least once, just as everyone did. And so, ignorant though she felt, she'd shared what little she was taught from her childhood catechism, ignoring his complete lack of enthusiasm on the subject.

Christine felt Erik's stomach muscles tense beneath her arms, which she had wrapped around his middle, and she broke from her absorbed reverie. Weary in body and mind, she slowly opened her eyes and lifted her cheek from his strong back to learn the cause for his sudden alarm.

Ahead, a cottage appeared through the thick sea of trees. Beyond that, a vineyard stood in neat rows of dusky violet across the open land. Rays of sunlight filtered through low clouds, causing the pale stone dwelling to shimmer like the palest of coral, a shelter in a storm. Though no storm raged, except the desolate one inside her heart.

Erik reined in Orion. "As I am a wanted man, it would be more prudent for you to approach the owner of the cottage to inquire about a meal. I despise the thought of begging, but I will not let you starve. Do not fear, Christine, I shall be watching. I'll not let harm come to you."

With his help, she slid off the horse and to the ground, feeling confident in his vow to guard her. He had always been her protector. He gave her a faint smile of encouragement that broke through her gray mood, bringing a glimmer of hope. She answered with her own tentative smile, before approaching the door of the cottage.

A short woman missing two teeth, with coarse hair wrapped around her head in a braid, answered the knock.

"_Bon Jour_." Christine cleared the huskiness from her throat due to disuse and thirst. "We are traveling to Seville and wondered if you might give us food? We were robbed on the road, and—"

"_No comprendo, senorita_." The woman briskly shook her head, shutting the door. "_No comprendo_."

Christine stared at the closed door in weary defeat then returned to the shadows of the trees where Erik waited. She told him what happened. He looked intently at the cottage for long seconds then dismounted.

"Erik?"

"Give me your hand, Christine."

Without thought she did as he quietly ordered. He tucked her palm in the crook of his arm and they walked to the door together. She felt the muscles in his arm constrict as he knocked with his other hand. She, too, was nervous.

"Erik, are you sure—"

"You must eat—"

The door swung open.

Upon catching sight of Erik, the woman shrieked and let out a stream of what Christine assumed was Spanish. Again she tried to slam the door. Erik stuck his boot in the jamb, preventing her action, also pushing with his other hand against the wood.

"_Por favor. Un momento de su tiempo. Yo no soy bandido_."

Bewildered, Christine stared at Erik as if she'd never before seen him in her life. He continued to speak fluently in the woman's tongue, and Christine noticed her marginally relax.

"_¿Qué desea?"_ The woman eyed him suspiciously. She looked at Christine and back again and spoke another string of words.

Erik shook his head. _"Nos robaron y buscamos ayuda. Mi aprendiz no hay comido desde esta mañana."_

In rapt disbelief, Christine watched the exchange between the two. More words transpired before the woman turned a compassionate gaze on Christine. She held her hand out in invitation, opening the door wider. When Christine only stood on the threshold and gaped she then slipped her arm around Christine's shoulders and herded her inside.

Christine glanced at Erik, who walked alongside her. "Whatever did you say?"

"That we mean no harm, that we were robbed, and that you have not eaten since morning."

She took in all he said then asked the question most prevalent in her mind. "And how is it that you speak and understand Spanish?"

His lighthearted chuckle caused a small fount of happiness to bubble within her heart.

"Ah, Christine. Did you truly believe I would aspire to travel to a land whose language I do not understand?"

His offhand remark only layered additional questions in Christine's mind, but they were prevented further discussion, when the woman abruptly pushed Christine down in a chair in front of a table. She blinked in surprise, and watched Erik's lips twitch as the woman bustled away.

"Rather forceful, is she not?" he asked, a twinkle of mirth in his eyes.

"I find myself more than a little relieved that she now seems to be on our side."

The woman soon returned, bringing each of them a plate of creamed brown beans and black bread. Erik took the chair across from Christine. The woman talked the entire time, though Christine had no knowledge of what she said and wondered if their hostess had long lacked company or ever received it. Christine shared an amused smile with Erik. They had evolved from suspect bandits to welcome guests within a matter of minutes.

Their hostess bustled back to the table and set before them a dish piled high with meat then pushed a bowl of fruit their way. Next she brought wine and poured two glasses. Christine eyed the bounty of food with disbelief. She was famished, but doubted she could eat all or even half of what the woman had dished upon her plate.

"Eat, Christine." Erik's quiet words prodded her. "We are close to Spain, but still have a great distance to travel. And we do not know from where our next meal will come."

Somberness revisited his features, and his jaw tensed as he averted his now blank gaze to the lone window of the room. Christine would gladly give away all her food and go without, if only to bring back his smile.

_Please don't put distance between us again, Mon Ange._ She spoke into his mind but he didn't respond, didn't show that he'd even heard her. _Please, don't keep shutting me out._

At last he looked at her, his eyes gentle but troubled. And with every fiber of her soul she longed to go to him. To wrap her arms around his weary shoulders and hold him tight, so tight. To kiss him with all that was within her and assure him that they _could _survive without the gold, without the ring, without a kingdom – that all would be well as long as they had each other and remained close.

Under cover of the table, Christine bunched the folds of her skirt in both hands in a supreme effort to remain seated and curb such desperate overtures before they surfaced, knowing he wouldn't welcome them, not at this time. Particularly not with their hostess in constant attendance and watching them with open interest.

Tonight, when they were again alone, she _would_ answer her heart's cry and go to him. She must. She could no longer withstand this wretched distance, to have him so near, and yet so far. She only hoped he would not turn her away.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews! And a big thanks to PaddySnuffles for clearing up some of the Spanish. :)**

Trivia notes from hidden plot: Why La Feria? (In Seville, Spain) & more

During STYDI- after he pushes her away and she falls down, during his rant at one point she seems to smile (masquerade song- "curl of lip, swirl of gown"- and masquerade song was a key of where to find things and how). At this point (when she smiles) they show a paper with the words La Feria on it, propped up by a candlestick in front of her. They switch to show him for several seconds- then they show her again- the candlestick is now no longer in front of her, it is behind her. And the paper with the words La Feria is missing.

**La Feria** means: Festival of Lights. It is an actual annual celebration held in Spain- and it is held in the city where Don Juan originated. Seville. It is filled with feasting, dancing, and song. A musical celebration. Red and green striped tents fill the area (red- king; green- queen- will show why later). It also has spiritual connotations- a celebration of light. (no more darkness)

In the movie, they showed her always try to bring the light to Erik, to bring him out of darkness where he was trapped.

One example: Foreign subtitles used on the DVD often said different things, like telling a different story - and sometimes were just the opposite of the translation. On my team I had helping me delve into this mystery, there were those who knew Spanish and French. One was taking the class in college and showed her professor the words, to verify she'd done it right, and in the professor's words (who also happened to be a translator)- she had, and the subtitles "told a completely different story."

We found that true with the French, the Italian (libretto of movie), and the Spanish. (Those are the only ones we translated as well as double and triple-checked with others who know the language.) While it's true no translations can be exact, that they have to account for the various language discrepancies in flow, etc- their "translations" often didn't even come close to what was being said. BUT each language supplemented a deeper part of the story, girding what we found in other ways. For instance- The Spanish- mainly talked about the light, about his "cross" (burden) and him asking for her help- showing a hint that there are demons, etc- also about their love and more.

Here's a for instance (remember, these words I'm putting here in Spanish are all SHOWN on the DVD Spanish subtitles if you want to take a look for yourself):

CHRISTINE:  
_Angel of Music..._  
Ángel, te ofuscan tus demonios  
**Angel, your demons are blinding you**

CHRISTINE:  
_Who deserves this?_  
¿No hay vuelta atrás, Ángel?  
**Is there no going back, Ángel?**

CHRISTINE:  
_Why do you curse mercy?_  
Siento que estés sufriendo  
**I feel that you are suffering...**

And this:

CHRISTINE:  
_Pitiful creature of darkness, what kind of life have you known?_  
Mísero  
Trágico Ángel  
Cuán grande es ya tu aflicción  
**Miserable, tragic Angel, how great is your affliction**

_God give me courage to show you, you are not alone!_  
Nuestra es tu canción  
Óyeme, tú no estás solo  
**Your song is ours  
Listen to me, you are not alone**

With the French there are a few surprising connections (including a hint that Raoul was his brother) and a whole lot more about E/C love –(MOTN is absolutely steamy as is PONR)- also there is more hint of what the darkness is, etc. The Italian - even deeper into both – especially showing kingship/queenship - and strongly supporting all we found in other clues all throughout move of props, actions, scenes, music, etc. – as all the foreign translations do- and all of them point to E/C love- some of them flat out stating it. Such as Wandering Child/AOM:

CHRISTINE: _Angel of Music, I denied you_  
ERIK: _Angel of Music, you denied me_  
CHRISITINE: Ángel de música di cuánto  
ERIK: Ángel de música di cuánto  
**"Angel of Music, I gave so much"**

CHRISTINE: _Turning from true beauty_  
ERIK: _Turning from true beauty_  
CHRISTINE: ¿Cuánto amor tú pides?  
ERIK: ¿Cuánto amor tú pides?  
**"How much love do you request?"**

There was much more. Especially at end of movie in final lair scene through the subtitles it showed an E/C love, and strongly hinted that she was answering his proposal from the bridge (especially since in the English she began singing in middle of song, right where he left off).

She was often trying to get Erik to come to the light. Here are a few instances of many that we found where she did that:

Spanish subtitles shown on DVD:

CHRISTINE: Angel of music, hide no longer, secret and strange angel.  
Ya sal a la luz la espera es larga  
Cuéntanos tu historia  
**Come to the light. The delay has already been too long. Tell us your story.**

*Many times they showed white light near her or around her when with Erik. i.e.- In POTO- as he is taking her to his lair- when they are in boat, five levels beneath the earth and at night, a white stream of light follows them (he even looks back at it as he's using the pole to propel them while she sings). When they show just the portcullis, there is no light, but as soon as the boat comes through they are awash in it (as if the light caught up) and the next thing, the gates are down, closed, trapping the light outside- keeping it out.

_Erik: Lead me, save me from my solitude . . ._

Dime que me libras  
De esta cruz  
**Say you will free me from this cross**

from honey: cross-burden, which was darkness/phantom...in AIAOY Raoul asked to free her from her cross and lead her into the light (in Spanish subtitles)...now Erik is asking that she free him of his cross and lead him into the light.

_Say you want me  
with you, here beside you . . ._  
Di que me amas  
Que estaré contigo  
**Say that you love me, and that I will be with you always.**

***At this point on PONR bridge he draws her into a ray of light that was never there before, and never is there after, and he sings this at that time:**

_Anywhere you go let me go too –_  
Déjame aprender  
A ver la luz  
**Let me learn to see the light.**

(Erik seems to be asking for her help to rid him of the darkness and bring him into the light, to recognize what she must do- this is when she turns with a sad smile before tearing away the black mask, symbolic of Phantom power...oh- and the light he leads her into is BLUE - that is symbolic of music. A few other times they showed it (not all)- blue light goes through him in STYDI - erratic lines when he was upset- later it shows on him when he picks up the candlestick to break the mirror, but only on the word "music"- as if a clue to show that's what it means and he IS music. Blue light also runs through them both during their kiss, it also runs through the statue depicting them on top of opera house at beginning of movie.)

*the crystal ring stands for illumination (in actual symbolism) – per auctioneer's words "Perhaps we can frighten away the ghost of so many years ago with a little illumination."- If the ring also acted as a talisman for this high fantasy, it would help to protect against the Phantom spirit (ghost) - and she transferred the power of her ring to Erik at the end, to protect him so he could break free from darkness.

Joel Schumacher called this movie a fantasy in the movie companion book. An actual fantasy is magical or supernatural (dealing with a battle of good vs/ evil, often in the form of the paranormal- ghosts, demons, specters, etc.- and breaking free from it/them.) In this time period of 19th century in Europe, they had what they called miracle plays with this theme- and Robert le Diable (mentioned at auction) was one of them and a strong mirror to what happened in POTO ... which I believe was also written as a miracle play, in that Erik (with Christine's help) broke free of the darkness at end- breaking the 3 mirrors- and in all instances 3, as I said before, related to evil/darkness/phantom spirit in movie. So he broke 3 to break the power of the spirit over his life, and he had the ring/talisman of light to protect him. (nowhere in the screenplay did JS say that she returned the ring to Erik- he only wrote that **she gave** **her ring to him**).

The Phoenix is a royal bird, as I said before, immortal. It sets fire to itself after a time - (opera house fire, fire falling in lair in mirrors- five levels beneath the earth through stone)- and arises reborn. I think the symbolism of the Phoenix in the few ways they showed it relating to Erik (i.e. his bed and the statue) was their way of saying he would leave the darkness of his lair and go into the light, reborn.)

That's just a taste of what we found concerning the light and Christine's role as bringer of it (to Erik), etc.

**Back to La Feria:**

He had drawings of what looked like the gate of La Feria on his wall (Same drawing moved from one place, behind her when he was walking with her to stage in MOTN- to a different place in another scene- above his mirror and wigs when he sang Seal My Fate.) Because of all La Feria stands for- (relating to movie: the significance of him coming out of darkness and into light- of dressing like Don Juan and his opera being Don Juan - which originated from Seville, the place of La Feria - and it being a musical week-long celebration, etc- seemed like a hint of where they might go after leaving opera house.

So, for my story, that's why I wrote it as I did and made their destination La Feria. :)

More trivia notes soon…


	10. Moonlight Sonata

**xXx  
**

**Chapter X**

**xXx  
**

**.  
**

Each day, the Vicomte de Chagny hid his title by donning old clothes, and scouted the streets and taverns of Paris for news of Christine and the Phantom. With reforms bandied about and no outward sign of violence, except for a slim few who'd taken the matter out of hand, the general fervor of the revolution had quieted down somewhat.

He didn't question the force that drove his actions, nor did he ponder the dull ache that hindered his spirit. And he didn't probe his judgment in searching a city from which he sensed the Phantom had already fled. From the beginning, he knew that someone, somewhere, must know something. From what he learned today, someone did.

On those occasions when Meg's hatchet-like words buried deep inside his mind, cutting into his logic, his silent counterattack was that the quest for his Little Lotte was vital, that he must save her from herself. Before the Phantom placed her under his controlling power, she had promised herself to Raoul. Her place was as Vicomtesse, by _his_ side. And if his silent arguments rang hollow, what of it? He maintained his actions were just, his reasoning sound. Personal feelings aside, his reason for seeking them went much deeper than a concluded engagement. Something Meg Giry would never understand, since he couldn't tell her of the pledge with which he'd been entrusted.

Most evenings, he resumed his role of aristocrat and heir to the de Chagny holdings. Frequently he entertained his Aunt Helena, the Dowager Comtesse de Chagny. The two inconstants of his world piqued her interest, and she often questioned him about his findings regarding the Phantom. In spending time with his aunt, Raoul confirmed his earlier assessment of her character and appreciated someone in whom he could confide. A woman of strength, she remained cloaked in mystery and sorrow. It had been many years since her husband's death, but Raoul assumed she still mourned the former Comte.

Tonight, the setting sun painted a cloudy sky, the roses produced a fragrant aroma, and for one blessed hour, Raoul allowed himself to relinquish the frustration and stress of former weeks. As he walked beside his aunt within the de Chagny garden, she chuckled at a recounting of a horse race he'd won against a peer at university, when his days were carefree, before he'd ever known of a Phantom's existence.

"Ah, Raoul. If only I could have had a son like you."

Her eyes grew sad, and Raoul patted her fingers at the crook of his arm. "Although I cannot be a son, I would consider it an honor to offer my services as a doting nephew."

"Then I shall have to content myself with that. It is difficult to die a lonely old woman."

"Aunt Helena, you could never be considered old, and you hardly look to be at death's door."

She gave him a reproving look. "Now then, none of your flattery. I'll not have it. If I choose to wallow in my self pity, at least grant me that privilege."

"As you wish." He gave a mock bow.

The lighthearted moment passed as they continued their stroll. "Have you uncovered any news on the masked man?" she asked casually.

"As a matter of fact, I believe my hunt is about to pay off."

"Oh?"

"One of the men I questioned knows of a driver whose services were requisitioned on the night of the Phantom's disappearance. It seems the man was rather disgruntled after being sent away without remuneration. At a tavern, he bewailed his woes to all who would listen. I plan to track him down tomorrow."

Her expression grew pensive. "Do you imagine the Phantom might have remained in Paris?"

"I thought so once, but no longer. He is much too clever to risk recognition or capture. There were those from the opera who saw his face that night and know of his deformity. To stay would be to risk arrest. He would know this."

"Perhaps he went underground again?"

Raoul did not want to consider such a possibility. The mental image of Christine below the earth, withering for lack of sun, brought with it great distress. Such a world had been the Phantom's domain for twenty-two years. If anyone could survive such an existence and stay hidden, it was that creature.

_Say the word and I will follow you ..._

That night's memory produced a haunting echo within his mind, disturbing his spirit, as it often did. With a troubled frown, he plucked a vibrant pink rose from a bush. Wistfully, he fingered its velvet petals.

"You think of her?" his aunt questioned, her voice soft.

"Always."

She was quiet a moment. "Raoul, do you truly believe the Phantom would cause Miss Daae harm?"

What prevented Raoul from issuing an immediate and decisive affirmative he couldn't begin to speculate. His thoughts shifted to each time he'd found Christine alone with the Phantom, ending on that last occurrence, when she wore _his_ wedding dress. His jaw clenched in remembered agony at the sight. His grasp unconsciously tightened around the bulb. A petal tore loose and escaped his thumb, fluttering to the ground.

He looked down at the forlorn petal, his brow clouding. "Perhaps not intentionally. Yet he cannot help but cause her harm due to the manner of man that he is."

His aunt stared hard at him and then at the pink rose in his hand, her eyes distressed. "In that event, I will add my petitions to yours that you find this man and find him quickly."

Raoul inwardly flinched at her response. "Merci, Aunt Helena." With a parting nod, he walked away, unable to remember the last time he'd sought heavenly counsel.

**xXx**

Nighttime painted bizarre shadows on the walls of the cramped room Christine had been given. Restless, she studied their shapes, then turned her head to the window where the moon shone, casting a pool of white light onto the woven mat. Their hostess, a widow with two grown sons who lived in cottages nearby, had opened her home to them, insisting they stay the night, and with quiet gratitude, Erik had accepted her generosity.

_Erik ..._

With sleep nothing more than an illusion, Christine sat up on the cot. The mattress and pillow were feather-soft, the bedgown which the woman had lent her comfortable. But Christine knew only unease. This was the first night since they'd fled Paris that Christine did not have her Angel lying nearby. Earlier, as they'd partaken of the meal, she'd felt bold, confident about approaching Erik. Moments later she struggled with fear and doubt, allowing the little girl within to regain control of her thoughts and shy away from what she wanted, what she needed.

But now her soul cried out for him, and she moved forward, answering its plea. Her heart raced with the hope that guided her steps, while the world seemed to have taken on a sluggish dreamlike quality that saturated her mind. And yet, above it all, a peculiar clarity heightened her senses.

With bare feet, she padded into the front room where the woman had laid out a pallet for Erik by the fire. The blanket had been tossed back. The pillow, stark and empty, bore an indentation where his head had lain.

Christine looked toward the outside door. Once more the anxious girl inside tried to restrain her, whispering that she shouldn't go to him, that he would only reject her again. But too long she'd held back and listened to the child she'd been. Determined, she now moved forward, giving regard to the woman she'd become.

The air caressed her face with its warm, scented breeze. She spotted Erik immediately. He stood in the darkness, a short distance from her, facing the direction they'd come and looking up at the moon in the sky.

She caught her breath in a gasp and held it. The moonlight illumined his trim muscular build in a gentle wash of white. In unhurried pleasure her eyes studied him. His full cloak absent, she had an unimpeded view of his lithe form. His strong back was bare above the dark breeches, which tightly stretched over long, well-developed legs. His muscled arms were bent in a manner of arrogant grace, his hands resting carelessly upon narrow hips. The supreme masculinity of Erik took what little breath Christine yet possessed, and she released the remainder of it slowly.

As if sensing her presence, he turned, looked at her a moment, then bent down for his shirt, which lay across a flat rock. He pulled it over his head as she approached. The swift action seemed a way to shut her out, yet another barrier he used against her, and Christine's courage faltered. Still, she walked forward until she stood so close that if she reached up on tiptoe she could kiss him.

**xXx**

Erik held his breath throughout her approach and swallowed hard when she stopped in front of him. Once before she had walked to him in such a manner, and the memory of the kiss that followed made his heart race. In the voluminous white gown with her thick mass of dark curls hanging around her to her waist, Christine looked like a misplaced angel who had wandered far from her heavenly domain. Her glowing face rivaled the moon beyond.

"You should be in bed." His voice came out gravelly.

"I could not sleep."

"Is the room not satisfactory?"

"I could not sleep from missing you."

Her quiet words thundered inside him. The look in her eyes was both tender and compelling. His breathing came unsteady.

"Christine ..."

"Please, don't turn me away." She reached up to cup his cheek for an instant, and it was then he realized he'd forgotten to replace his mask after he'd bathed. "I ask only that you talk with me. At the very least, let me merely soak in your presence until I am filled with you and can again return to my bed."

How could he deny her request when it echoed his own heart? Still to be so near to her, to feel her warmth and touch in this alluring cloak of midnight created turmoil to his senses, sorely impeding his fervent need to honor his self-made vow. Memory of his seductive song to her and her eager response to him in the music that filled their first night together mocked such resolve. Their kiss of passion eternal days ago revisited his mind ...

"Is there a specific matter you wish to discuss?" His words came out more curtly than he'd intended.

"You are angry with me?" Her brows lifted and hurt laced her voice. "Have I displeased my Angel of Music?"

He felt far removed from an angel at this moment, though he was only a man. A reminder made even more powerful as she stood before him, looking so beautiful, so desirable…

Releasing a heavy breath, he walked away and sat down upon the rock. "My apologies. I am not angry with you, Christine." He picked up his mask lying there.

She followed. A taut moment elapsed before she spoke.

"How is it that you know Spanish?"

He finished tying the mask at the back of his head before he replied. "Twenty-two years is a long time to live a life of seclusion. I entertained myself with varied interests and taught myself from vast stores of knowledge. Madame Giry obtained books for me, many of them huge tomes, and I absorbed everything within their pages." Stiffening as a dark thought invaded, he looked up at her. "The gypsies who caged me also spoke the language, and from them I learned other words. Words such as 'devil's child' and 'beast.' Would you like to hear how they are pronounced?"

"Don't." Swiftly she knelt before him. Her fingers touched his mouth and rested there a moment, before softly curling and trailing away. She lowered her hand to his knee. Her caresses raced through him like liquid fire. Her eyes echoed that warmth.

"Don't belittle yourself to me, even if it's only to quote the foolish and cruel words of another." Her tone came gentle but emphatic.

He studied her in amazement. "How is it that you find any worth in me?"

She smiled. "There are those who have everything they could desire yet choose to make nothing of themselves. You had nothing you needed or wanted, yet you rose above that and made everything that is beautiful. Your drawings, your compositions, but most of all, dear Angel, your song. Your music captivates and caresses; it thrills and soothes. Since the moment I first heard it, even as a child, I was lost to you."

His need to touch her overwhelming, he reached out to trace his fingertips along the side of her neck to her throat. "It is your magnificent voice that is my greatest creation."

Her other hand reached up to clasp his. "Without you as my teacher I would have never been inspired."

They stared at one another as, unseen, gossamer threads of light wove deeply from her spirit into his, linking them together, binding them ever closer as one.

"Will you instruct me in the language?" Her voice was a mere whisper. "So that together we may communicate with the people of Spain?"

Erik took hold of her arms and stood to his feet, bringing her up with him. He marveled that her eyes held all the adoration that mirrored his own heart for her. Leaning forward, he allowed himself to brush his lips against her silken mouth one blissful time. One morsel of paradise to soothe his starving soul.

Her hand cupped his cheek as she pressed in closer, her body warm against him, arousing him. It was all he could do not to give in to the desire that bound them both. Knowing that soon dawn would tint the sky, that the day must commence and in so doing would separate them, the temptation grew strong to give rein to his body's need of her, to satisfy her own silent hunger. Instead he pulled back, attempting a smile he did not feel. Her eyes shone in question.

He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the back of her fingers. "First, sweet Christine, I shall teach you a Spanish song of love."

**xXx**

Lucinda awoke to the most beautiful music she'd ever heard. The music of angels. Even the adoring words, themselves, flowed deep inside her, mesmerized her. Never, since her sweet Alphonse had died, had she been so moved by the sound of a voice. Not one voice, but two, blending in sweet accord. Music so pure, so imbued with emotion, it filled her eyes with moisture and lifted her heart with song.

Any lingering anxiety she had harbored about the man in the mask vanished. A voice that exquisite could not be hidden within a wicked heart.

As their song ended, lingering as a sweet caress in the still night air, the smile slipped from Lucinda's face. She felt troubled for her young guests. Erik's solemn request of Lucinda had come within moments after Christine retired for bed, and was certain to bring the young señorita pain. Lucinda recognized the sparkle of love in Christine's eyes whenever the girl looked the señor's way. And the answering love he exhibited for her seemed so powerful it was almost a tangible force. Never had Lucinda seen two people so well suited to one another.

She closed her eyes sadly. She did not anticipate the dawn.

**xXx**


	11. Decided

**xXx**

**Chapter XI**

**xXx**

.

Raoul masked his irritation as he eyed the filthy driver. The man's clothes reeked from the stench of days' old sweat and strong ale, but inside this decrepit tavern with its soiled plank floors and scarred tables, he fit in well. His eyes were bleary and his speech, at times, came twisted, as if he struggled to remember. Due no doubt to the tankard of ale Raoul bought him. He doubted it was the man's first, second, or even third serving of the dark brew.

Raoul leaned forward in his chair so as to hear above the boisterous talk and raucous laughter coming from a table of factory workers nearby. "Exactly what do you remember of that night?"

"That night?" Pierre spoke as if he'd already forgotten what Raoul just said.

"The night you were hired to wait outside the tenement belonging to Madame Giry," Raoul repeated with barely concealed impatience.

Pierre stuck out his lower lip. "They didn' pay me my fare."

If Raoul could cross the man's palm with gold to prod his memory, he would. But to do so could proclaim his nobility, and he would be a fool to take such a haphazard risk in Paris at this time. He decided on another approach that might stoke some hidden fire of angst.

"It is vital that I discover all you know. The people there that night are thought to be spies, opposed to this revolution, and could make trouble for the cause."

He fostered no misgiving in telling a falsehood. The man likely would have no recollection of Raoul's words before he quit the tavern. If he didn't pass out cold on the floor first.

"_Viver la Camoon!_" Pierre slurred, lifting his tankard high in the air. He downed the rest of the dark ale in three noisy gulps. Rivulets of brew streamed from the corners of his mouth.

Raoul propped his elbow on the table and buried his forehead in his palm. This was getting him nowhere. The man appeared too drunk to make sense or know it.

Pierre slammed his empty tankard on the table and jarred the table leg, making the top shudder. "I did see somethin' that night."

Alert, Raoul lifted his head. "Yes?"

"They didn' know I wuz there." Pierre wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and belched. "Had to leave the carr-rrage to relieve myself."

Disgusted with the man's crassness, Raoul prompted, "Go on."

"I wen' aroun' to the side o' the building. A woman and man was slippin' out the window. In a hurry, they wuz."

"Did they say anything? Was anyone with them?"

Pierre's florid face became a concentration of study as he pondered the simple question. After a lengthy span of silence, Raoul wondered if Pierre had moved beyond some other level of consciousness, where only the inebriated go.

"Did they speak to anyone at all?" Raoul asked more loudly.

"A woman. From inside. Comely she wuz, though a bit long in the tooth for my likin'."

"Was the woman Madame Giry?"

More silence. Raoul briefly closed his eyes, summoning up every store of dwindling patience in his reserve. "Do you remember what this woman said?"

The man scratched his head as though the effort taxed his brain beyond its limit. "She wished 'em Godspeed an' safe journey."

"That was all?"

Pierre again pulled his brows together, deep in thought. Raoul had had enough. He rose to his feet to leave the foul tavern, when suddenly the man's piggish eyes brightened.

"She told 'em if they needed her, to write, and she would come t' them. In Spain."

**xXx**

Christine woke, a smile on her face. Before she rose from bed, she relived the wondrous night, leading to the love song Erik taught her, which she then sung with him. A sense of incredible oneness had rendered her breathless. A sense of purpose enlivened her spirit to share in all that he was, in all that they could be together. Afterward, she embraced him, resting her cheek against his warm skin where his shirt lay open, feeling his heartbeat swift and sure against her. Wishing to remain locked in his arms forever but knowing she must retire, that morning would soon be upon them, Christine had cupped his face in her palms and tenderly kissed his lips, hoping by her action to convey all that he meant to her. Before he could withdraw, she moved away from him, retracing her steps to her bed.

"I love you, Christine." His low whisper followed, made her hesitate, almost led her back to him. Yet she reasoned he wouldn't welcome such a gesture, not yet. Though he hadn't pulled away from her when she embraced him, he still seemed to distance himself by the manner in which his body had tensed. It wounded her, yes, but she felt she'd at last come to understand.

Erik was unaccustomed to outward displays of affection, having been starved of them his entire life, up until the night she walked forward to him in the water, prepared to do battle with the dark forces of Hades in order to loose him and free their love. She'd come to the conclusion it would take time for him to trust in that love and feel comfortable with the expression of it. Erik remained a man of deep mystery, an enigma containing many facets. Christine longed to discover and learn each remarkable one, but intuition told her such steps must come slowly, over a period of time. And she had all the time in the world to give to him.

With a contented sigh, she lazily stretched her arms above her, then rose and dressed. By the slant of golden rays through the window, the sun had long arisen. He would want to resume their journey soon.

She came upon Erik and Señora Alvero in deep discussion. The woman held his jeweled dagger, looking at it as he spoke little above a whisper. Hearing Christine's step at the door, they both turned their heads in her direction. Erik immediately averted his gaze. Señora Alvero eyed Christine as though thoughtful, looked at the rubies embedded on the dagger's hilt then at Christine again, and turned to Erik, nodding as she spoke.

"No, Erik."

Christine's voice shook with grave authority, and the two seated at the table gave her a startled look.

"No."

"Christine, this is not the time."

"I disagree. This is precisely the time." Stinging disbelief blew away the idyllic cloud of the previous evening. "Tell me that your plan is not to leave me here. That what I just witnessed is _not_ what it appears to be."

Erik spoke a few words to Señora Alvero who nodded. He rose from his chair and approached Christine. Taking her by the elbow, he walked with her outdoors.

She yanked away from his grasp when they'd gone a short distance, and whirled around to face him. "How could you?"

His countenance was grim. "It is for your own good."

"My own good?" Her words were incredulous. "You're pushing me away again. How can that be for my own good?"

"This journey has been difficult, moreso since we were robbed. We still have the mountains through which to travel before we come to Spain, and I have learned they are treacherous. I will not see you endure greater hardship, Christine. Señora Alvero lives alone. You would be good for one another. She has two married sons who live nearby and visit often, so there is no threat of danger. You would never go hungry again."

"So I have become a burden to you, to place at your disposal?" Distressed anger fueled her words. "Tell me, when have I once complained?"

His jaw clenched. "I will come back for you once I find a place for us in Seville, once I have the means to give you all that you deserve."

"We both know that may never happen, that fate can be a cruel taskmaster to keep us apart. Now that we've found one another, will you truly risk this new threat to the fulfillment of our love? To a life shared in unity?"

He closed his eyes against her pleas. "I have decided, Christine."

"So have I. I will not stay."

At her firm declaration he again regarded her. "You would defy my wishes?" His question was soft, incredulous, though a hint of steel underlay the words.

"If to do so means to guard and hold onto our love, then yes. I would."

He looked at her a tense moment. She stared back, just as determined. Behind the black mask, his eyes sparked green fire. His lips thinned and he stalked away, to stand and stare out over the land from which they'd come.

Christine drew a shaky breath. She'd never denied him anything, never disobeyed his orders. Not until now. Though she would cross him if she must, her true desire was his blessing for her to travel the entire journey by his side, and she sensed the time had come for her to speak. Seeking strength to say what had been on her heart for days, she approached him. His stance remained formidable.

"Angel of Music. Please look at me."

His shoulders stiffened further at her words.

"Please."

He swung around.

"I'm not a child."

"I know that, Christine –"

She barely shook her head, lifting her hand in a silent plea to cut off his annoyed retort.

"Neither am I a goddess."

His head tilted as though he were trying to follow her, though he narrowed his eyes warily, as though he knew exactly what she meant.

"I am mortal, flesh and blood. I feel. When you hold me close, my heart sings. When you push me away, my soul cries. Always, when we've shared a moment of love and unity, you push me away, exactly as you're doing now. When I first removed your mask while you played the organ – and in so doing wished only to bring you out of hiding, to show you the light – you lashed out at me and stayed absent for months. At the Bal Masque, when we walked toward one another and our hearts connected, you then bitterly turned on me. After the first time my lips touched yours in the lair," her eyes lit upon his mouth for an instant, "and we shared our first moment of true intimacy, you then ordered me away."

"Why do you bring up the past, Christine?" His voice was harsh.

"Because it is affecting our present. Forgive me, I don't wish to hurt you, but this has been heavy on my heart for days." She laid a hand against his cheek. "In your mind you have exalted me to a lofty position of goddess, and I feel it's an attempt to create distance between us. But it is lonely on this pedestal, dear Angel, and I am cold, feeling forlorn. I am a woman, not a goddess, and you are a man, not a monster. You are worthy of me, my King. I only pray I can be worthy of you."

He briefly closed his eyes and swallowed, deeply affected by her words. "Christine." His voice came rough. "I don't know what lies in the days ahead, with no money, no sustenance. I would rather sacrifice my own life before I would see you suffer."

"Dear Erik." Tenderly, her fingers stroked his jaw. "Do you not realize there exists a far greater suffering than physical hunger or want of a bed? Do you not realize the suffering I endured when I was without you? Those four long weeks I stayed at Madame Giry's home, sheltered, fed, in want of nothing concerning outward necessities. Yet my heart felt as if it had died within my breast. _I_ wanted to die when I thought I had lost you. I was a moving shadow, whose soul had shriveled to almost nothing."

"Christine ..."

"Please, my Angel, don't forsake me again. Yes, this journey has been difficult, moreso than either of us imagined. But I have never felt more alive. My soul and heart are connected to yours in ways I don't understand, but it's the truth. When you are apart from me, I merely exist. When we're together, I feel as if I'm flourishing, and your love and strength sustain me."

A faint smile lifted his lips. "You are the one who has become strong. At times I wonder who is truly master."

"Don't you see, Erik? It is _together_ that we're strong. We draw on each other's strength, and as such we've been able to triumph over every difficulty that has beset us. Do not destroy that bond and make us weak."

To leave her behind was never his desire though cold logic demanded the action. His heart beseeched him to regard her words, and he came to terms with the truth. He could never have gone through with this, never let her go. To do so would have been to cut out his very heart and deny its existence. Whether for a week or a month, the absence would have stretched into an eternal void, unbearable to endure.

He shook his head in defeated awe. "How can I refuse so eloquent a plea? How can I deny my Angel of Music?"

Joy radiated from her face. "Then we will return to the cottage and you will tell Señora Alvero she has no boarder?"

Erik gave the softest of laughs, no more than a breath. He shook his head in resigned amusement.

"Erik?"

He moved his hand to her lower back, drawing her close, marveling that this petite woman could affect him so strongly, that her words could reach him so profoundly and in such a way that his rationale faded to nothing. Her arms closed around him and he inhaled deeply of the fragrance that was Christine.

"Please answer me," she insisted, worry in her voice.

"Yes, my beautiful, Impatient Rose. If that is truly your desire, I will tell her."

She nestled her cheek against his chest. "Being with you, Erik, that is my only desire."

A surge of emotion prevented his vocal response, though his heart answered her whisper. _And my desire is to have you with me always, sweet Christine, to give all of my love to you forever._

She sighed happily and snuggled closer.

Despite his reassurances, a niggling worry persisted. The black cloud that followed them for days had disappeared shortly after they reached Señora Alvero's cottage, though this last time it had crept closer. Erik hoped his unease as to the meaning of its existence proved groundless and it had well and truly vanished. But in remembering the Phantom's black strategies, Erik doubted his wish would be so easily granted.

The Phantom spirit had deceived them both in a ploy to control Erik through his music and Christine through her mind and, by doing so, sought to gain complete command of the opera kingdom. The spirit had hoped to seize Erik's throne, and Erik came chillingly close in allowing him to do all that and more, before he broke free from the chains of darkness and escaped. Yet he didn't fool himself into believing the Phantom would concede so quickly, nor would it surprise Erik if the enemy sent his minions to follow and spy on him and Christine, to await a designated time.

His eyes went to the low hills in the north, where he'd last seen the thundercloud. The skies appeared clear, but a dark omen whispered to his spirit, and he sensed all was not over, that another battle lay on the horizon. One more intense and terrifying than any they'd yet encountered. Erik tightened his hold around Christine, cupping his other hand to the back of her head, and clenched his jaw.

Guard her he would, with his life if need be. Never again would he allow the forces of evil to come near her. Never again.

**xXx**


	12. Unwanted Encounter

**xXx**

**Chapter XII**

**xXx**

**.**

Tatters of shadow played tricks with the light ... or perhaps light misled shadow.

With a sense of alarm, Madame Giry stood outside her tenement and stared at a vaporous gray face that leered at her from within the shallow recess of the opposite building. In the next instant it vanished, leaving her to question her vision or, more likely, the workings of her mind.

Ghoulish shapes did not belong here. This was not the opera house.

Sleep had been a fickle companion. Peaceful slumber visited only to taunt then race away and leave her victim to dreams of terror that slashed at her mind, ending abruptly and leaving her wide awake in bed, panting to regain breath. Each day the darkness grew more oppressive. Each evening her petitions for King Music and his bride intensified. Yet not once since her days at the opera house had she seen a visible sign of the encroaching darkness. Not once…

Until now.

Making an effort to shake off her qualms, Madame hurried away.

The Maestro had left her with five thousand francs. His show of gratitude would tide her and Meg over for a time, but the money would eventually disappear and the physician's visits had not come cheaply. Nor could Madame endure idle hands. She needed work that would ensure she could stay with her daughter during her convalescence.

The Maestro also told Madame that if she desired, she could revisit the lair, take anything of value there and sell it. He stressed he did not need or want anything it contained any longer. However, Madame harbored no desire to confront the Phantom again, for she knew evil spirits never died, and she'd become an enemy of darkness when she turned to the light.

Once more she glanced over her shoulder toward the shallow recess in the wall, finding only that. A place of emptiness and shadow. Nothing more. No evil minion watched her – the vision, only a result of her weary mind playing tricks with her fears.

Her thoughts focused on the hunt before her, she wended her way along the wide streets, looking for signs in shop windows. If she could locate a seamstress, she would offer to baste clothing or whatever task was required. She was adept with a needle, having fashioned a few of her dresses and Meg's while they lived at the opera house. With the Maestro's explicit instructions and using his drawings as a guide, she'd also helped to create the dress Christine wore in her opera debut. She drew a pensive breath at the memory. That night had been the advent of change for all of them.

At times she wondered what might have happened had she stood up to the Vicomte and denied his entrance into the dressing room, instead of walking away as she'd done. The Maestro, armed with the Phantom's power, had been waiting behind the mirror to reveal his presence to Christine. Madame had known this, since together they arranged the meeting. She served her Maestro and upheld his dictates even when she didn't understand them. Yet she had not prevented the Vicomte from going forward, thus upsetting the plan.

She wondered if, even then, a hidden part of her sensed the absolute evil that was Phantom and had unconsciously hoped the Vicomte would protect Christine, since the Maestro had been so enmeshed in the spirit's black web. But when she'd seen the Maestro with Christine at the Bal Masque and during that final night on stage, she'd known theirs was a love destined to play out, whatever fate decided. Intuition now told her more would soon unfold. The outcome of their relationship had yet to be determined, and Madame wondered if the Vicomte would be an unwanted catalyst in its conclusion or the unwitting cause to its inception.

Turning a corner, she noticed a gathering crowd around a pole with a placard tacked to it. Madame also moved closer to read the black print. The proclamation stated separation of the church, the arrests of priests, and the cessation of back rent for the poor. More was listed, but Madame turned away having seen enough. Her disquiet persisted. Matters would not bode well, no matter how many promises were offered.

Over the exultant faces of the boisterous crowd she spotted one masculine fair head. Dismay robbed her of breath. She moved to go before he could see her, but wasn't surprised when he called out. The insane urge to flee as Meg had done tempted her shaky resolve. Instead, she firmed her shoulders and turned to face whatever new disaster awaited.

"Vicomte de Chagny. I would say this is a surprise, but I have grown rather accustomed to our meetings."

He waved away her flippant remark. "I know they're in Spain."

The force of his unexpected verbal blow threatened to bludgeon her defenses. She had no need to ask whom he meant. She noted the triumph written in his eyes and spun on her heel, thinking only to escape.

"Madame Giry!"

"Please, monsieur! I can tell you nothing, I know nothing."

"That's not true!" He grabbed her arm before she could put too much distance between them and pulled her around to face him. "It seems we've had this conversation before. Then, as now, your claims proved false."

She blew out an aggravated hiss of breath. "You ask for what I cannot give you. Why do you persist in the search?"

"You know why."

"In Christine's best interest? Or in retribution of your own wounded heart?"

His jaw hardened. "Christine's in danger. She needs protection."

"He is well able to protect her."

"I meant protection from him!"

"He would never harm her, of that I am certain."

"I don't happen to share your opinion."

"That, monsieur, is not my concern."

He forcefully released her arm. "It will be if I learn that harm has come to her due to your own stubborn silence."

"You again make threats toward me?" She kept her voice soft, knowing full well he had the power to put her in prison. Even though the revolution made the nobility their enemy, some men in the gendarme upheld old traditions.

"I swore to you when we last spoke that you need fear no reprisal from me. That hasn't changed. Yet you were to Christine like a mother. Can you truly live with yourself if harm comes her way?"

His words no longer flew like bullets. Nevertheless, they threatened her resistance. She loved Christine as a daughter, and now she wavered, uncertain. That this messenger of the Light they both served would show such grave concern surely couldn't be due to personal vindication alone.

"Please, Madame Giry…" He must have noticed her indecision, for his voice grew quiet as he again took her arm, this time gently, and led her to a nearby outdoor café. "A moment of your time is all I ask."

She wondered if she betrayed her Maestro by conversing even a moment with his self-proclaimed enemy. Still, to listen to the Vicomte's words could cause no one harm. She need say nothing. Nodding once, she sank to a chair he held out for her. He took the one opposite and leaned forward.

"Christine is in continual danger, there is no question in my mind. The Phantom – whom you call king – has never experienced a life outside the opera house since he was a child. You told me this yourself. He is unaccustomed to living in the light of day and knows only the night. In this outside world, which is immense compared to the confines of the opera house he's known, there are considerable perils. That they chose to travel to Spain alone, without any means, causes me great alarm. In all likelihood, they are lost or starving. I only hope that is the sum total of their hardship."

Madame lowered her gaze, confused. "But he's a genius, monsieur." She repeated the words she'd spoken to him in what seemed another lifetime.

"Genius or not, some things can only be learned through experience, and in this respect, he's had none. For Christine's sake, Madame Giry, tell me what city they were traveling to in Spain. You must know, to tell them you would write to them."

Shocked that he should know such information and wondering from what source he gained it, she remained anxiously silent. The arrogant strident Vicomte her mind could handle, evade. But this amiable quiet gentleman made her heart question, waver.

Had she caused further harm by keeping quiet at the Maestro's command? It was true, he couldn't foresee what dangers he faced, couldn't realize what lay in wait. He'd known two cages in his lifetime. That of the gypsies, and the lair to which the Phantom chained him. The image of both Music and his queen lying dead in the wilderness attacked her mind, and she quickly rose to go.

"Please, monsieur. I must think. I cannot give you an answer now."

"Very well, I will return tomorrow."

"Non. I will contact you should I choose to speak."

"Madame –"

"That is my final word on the matter."

He stared at her hard, then curtly nodded. "As you wish. Be aware, however, that every day's postponement is one moment closer to Christine's likely harm."

His grave words fermented inside her soul, but the idea of betraying her King caused upheaval within her conscience. Torn between impossible choices, she knew she must do whatever she could to help them.

**xXx**

Christine startled awake. The impression of something having skittered across her ankle tore her from sleep. Alarmed, she pulled her leg further into her skirt and cape and feverishly tucked both around her.

The night air breathed cold upon her face. The dry unyielding ground pressed hard into her skin. Faint pinpoints of stars hung suspended from a black sky, their light barely visible above the dying fire that rested between her and Erik. The moon hung in the sky, a sliver of fading white, its hooked ends piercing the clouds that collided against it.

Christine pushed herself up to sit and looked Erik's way. She drew up her knees and rested her chin atop them. Wrapping her arms around her skirt, she stared at his strong form…

A distant howl made her jump, and she swung her head around to peer into the darkness, vexed at the thought of what shadowy creature stalked beyond the fringes of their weak firelight, waiting for them. _Demon from hell or animal of the wild? Spirit from darkness or substance of the earth?_ In the pitch black of night the customary took on a bizarre cast. She didn't know this land, and she abhorred darkness and all it contained. Closing her eyes, Christine tried to summon a measure of calm. But peace refused to make a visitation.

Again she studied Erik. He reclined on his side, facing her. His head lay pillowed in the crook of one arm. His other arm lay slack, his hand resting on the ground in front of him. He wore the mask, never took it off, telling Christine it was necessary and that he must leave it on in the event they crossed paths with anyone. She felt his reasoning was only an excuse, a silent barrier to keep her out. No person would come across them in this godforsaken wilderness in the dead of night. However the appearance of a wild, ravenous creature on four legs, that was another matter entirely ... if it was indeed a creature composed of dust of the earth and not something belonging to a hidden realm more sinister.

Christine shivered and rested her concentration solely on Erik, attempting to block out all questions of what lay beyond. She watched him sleep, his chest rising and falling in deep rhythm. Even in sleep he gave off an impression of confidence and assurance, unaware or unafraid of danger. The side of his face that surely had been sculpted by the most skilled of the cherubim was turned toward her, and her fingertips ached to trace its masculine planes and hollows, his sensitive lips. He seemed so far away, though he lay within the span of several feet. She measured the distance between him and the dwindling fire.

It was enough.

Another mournful, eerie howl decided her.

Quietly she rose and went to him, casting aside all thought of his likely displeasure once he discovered her contrary act. With care, so as not to awaken him, Christine settled herself on the ground and, with slow precision, pulled up his arm resting it against his leg. Just as slowly she lay down against him, her back to his chest, then eased his arm down and around her, keeping her hand over his.

Fitted into his solid warmth, feeling the reassuring beat of his heart and his breath in her hair, Christine closed her eyes. Her lips curled into a faint smile and she drifted to sleep, at last secure and protected in the arms of her Angel.

**xXx**


	13. Just One Kiss

**xXx**

**Chapter XIII**

**xXx**

.

Erik woke, in the haze of a dream. Soft warmth brought him to stunned awareness, and he opened his eyes. He inhaled a prolonged breath, amazed to see and feel Christine nestled against him. Beneath his cape, she held his hand so that his arm embraced her, resting just below her bosom. Her form felt so slight, so fragile.

Had some unknown terror frightened her that she would seek comfort in his arms? A fierce wave of protection washed over him, followed by the first stirrings of desire.

His breathing strained, he fought such urges. So as not to waken her, he carefully slipped his hand from her small one. He knew he must move away, must not invite the temptation that always lurked near. But his need to touch her, this once, could not resist the lure of her pure beauty, and he reached up to caress her thick, glossy curls. He fingered one lock, gently pulling until it straightened, and brought the strand of hair to his lips, delighting in its softness. His eyes fell shut in wonder.

Christine was the essence of splendor. Her face, her form, her voice. Her soul. He failed to understand how she could love a deformed creature like himself, though he always yearned for what he felt an impossibility. That his dreams had come to pass still bewildered him. Her perception also astounded him.

How could she know his intentions so well? How could she so aptly discern his reasoning?

Sincerity had darkened her eyes when she insisted she go with him, never to be parted from him again. Erik remembered how those same eyes flashed when she declared that she was no goddess and he no monster. He had noted her quiet frustration often these past weeks, opposing his conviction that he considered himself less than human. It wasn't that he _chose_ to disbelieve her gentle words. Cruel men had stolen all such beliefs from him early in childhood, and he didn't know how to find the estimation of his worth or even if it was possible. Upon their first meeting, he created her into a goddess in his mind, an untouchable perfect being, resolving to maintain distance and not give his heart over to her completely, to protect it from being shattered in the likely event she should refuse him. But that too, worked against him. In his resolve to remain distant, he only suffered loss and wounded them both. Nor had she refused him.

In the past, each time she approached with love shining in her eyes, a distrustful part of his soul had been frightened by that love, and he retreated or retaliated for fear her actions weren't genuine, that they were only an illusion brought on by his desperation for her to love him – _him_. The man behind the mask, behind the monster. The idea that she actually _could_ feel such love still warred with old memories of the abuse he endured from the multitude who'd shown him only hatred.

Yet this cherished woman lying against the full length of him was no dream, no illusion and certainly no myth. Holding her close, he could most definitely discern she was flesh and blood, had never doubted that. She was very real. And through her actions, by her words, she had more than proven her love for him.

_Christine ... My beautiful Angel of Music ... Come to me, Angel of Music ..._

Gently Erik trailed his fingertips down her hair to her shoulder and along her sleeve. He should move away before he could no longer move away.

She stirred, and his fingers froze in their loving course. He had not realized until then that he'd sung into her mind, but she must have heard him. She turned in his arms, her gaze adoring. His breath caught as he stared into the brilliance of her velvet-dark eyes.

"Christine ..."

His whisper came from a taut throat. Moving his hand to touch her face, as if caught in a dream, he trailed his fingers down her temple and along her silken jaw. When he slowly brushed his fingertips over her parted mouth in wonder, she gently grasped his hand before he could move away and lightly kissed them.

A spark of fire lit inside his veins. He swallowed hard. He should go – now. But he couldn't resist the lure of her full, soft lips. One kiss ... only one kiss to sustain him for the long journey ahead ...

With gentle deliberation, he brushed his mouth against hers once, twice. The third time her tongue moved forward to part his lips, and his mind lost the battle to his dark, hungry soul.

He slid his hand to her waist, fitting his mouth over her perfect one that yielded so readily to him. His heart pounded in pleasure, in agony as her hot tongue pushed deep inside, learning him, seeking him, and he joined his tongue with hers in a dance of fire. With a faint whimper, she wrapped her arms tightly around his shoulders, encouraging him for more. In answer, he swept his hand down to her lush hip, cupping it, pressing her firmly against his hard body, against his desire. She gasped with shock then need. Her soft, pleading little moans further served to enhance his ardor.

He explored and possessed her mouth until he knew every inch of its enticing mystery. The power of their kisses, the hunger of their embraces intoxicated his mind, and he pulled her down with him to be consumed in an inferno of sweet fire. The music rose in crescendo until they were captivated by its potent strains and trembled against one another with a longing that demanded fulfillment.

His breathing ragged, Erik broke their kiss, moving his lips down her smooth jaw, her neck, the graceful column of her throat, hungry for the taste of her skin. He kissed the hollow where her pulse beat wildly, forging a fiery trail downward in rapt adoration. Her fingers threaded through his hair as his mouth brushed the soft swells above her bodice. Christine murmured his name in delight, holding him to her, silently begging for more. Her passionate reaction inflamed him and he could not stop.

In need of their joining, in fear of it as well, his hand violently trembled while he roughly, awkwardly worked to loosen her bodice and the top laces of her corset. He curled his fingers around the ruffled neckline of her chemise, steadily pulling downward, his mouth following the warm, silken path he bared. She gave a sharp intake of breath as his tongue found her stiff pink crest, and with gentle hesitation, he suckled. She arched against him with a desperate little cry. Her abandoned act emboldened him and he took more of her soft warm flesh inside, increasing the pressure, driving them both to the edge of madness.

God, she was exquisite! To taste her, to touch her, to _know_ her … this was what he needed … what she wanted … what they both desired. She writhed with pleasure under his firm caresses, and his hand slid over her with determination to bare the rest of her enticing skin to his knowledge.

By God, he _would_ have her. _All of her ..._

A sharp flash of gold demanded the attention of his unfocused eyes as the rising sun glanced off an object nestled in the valley of her lush breasts. The cross pendant.

It glimmered at him in accusation, reminding him of his accursed vow to her father and his own damnable resolve always to protect Christine's honor above his desire ... their desire. His eyes fell closed as he fought his body's fierce need of her and wrestled the temptation to abandon all such vows, to make her fully his in every sense of the word. The lure of her softness, her scent, her touch battled intensely with what he knew must be done.

_Honor_, God help them both, must be protected.

He tore himself away from her sweet, warm flesh and tugged her chemise carefully back into place, curbing the strong impulse to rip it completely from her skin. The hungry, pained look in her eyes threatened his resolve, mirroring his torment, but he inhaled a deep, shaky breath and laid two fingers against her mouth before she could speak. He struggled to contain his rapid breathing in order to be understood.

"Not a word, Mon Ange. I am not retreating from you. I seek only to protect you." He did not add that, at this moment, it was he from whom she needed protection.

"Protect me?" she whispered against his fingers as breathless as he. Another wave of heat coursed through his being at the feel of her warm breath, at her soft lips moving against his skin.

He withdrew his fingers and gazed at her mouth, swollen from his kisses, wishing only to give her more. From some buried reservoir deep within, he found the strength to stand and put distance between them.

Christine also struggled to stand, trembling in the aftermath of their terminated passion, her skin moist from the gift of his mouth upon her flesh. Her body still pleasantly tingled from his caresses, her lips as well, and she put her fingertips to her mouth in wonder. Never, _never_ had he kissed her or touched her so passionately, so … _thoroughly_. She felt a blush warm her skin. Even at the last campsite when she challenged him to act, he'd held back compared to what just happened between them.

And, oh, how she longed for him to continue!

Her fingers still shaking, she readjusted her rumpled clothing, brushing against the cross Meg had given her. At the reminder of her childhood upbringing, she wondered if she was wicked for so sinful a thought to want to be utterly and completely his at this moment, whatever that truly meant. It must be wonderful if it inspired such strong emotion, such an aching pleasure deep within. An ache she desperately needed him to quench.

He stared long toward the low hills, where rose colored the morning sky, before he turned her way. His eyes were distant, wounding her.

"Why, Erik?" she pleaded softly.

"I told you that I would cause you no dishonor. I also told you that I will not dishonor your father by tainting the arrangement we made. That I would take you to my bed as my wife, and only then." His eyes pleaded for her understanding but she frowned, not wishing to give it. Only wishing for him. All of him.

"Christine, honor, with regard to you, is all I have left. I destroyed every good thing about myself when I allowed the Phantom to control me, much as I controlled my dolls in the lair. Through all that hell we endured, I retained my honor concerning you. Never once did I touch you in a way to defile you, and I never shall. Do you understand?"

She gave a slight nod, though she understood very little. How could the experience they just shared lead to her ruin, when to feel his arms around her, his lips on her lips, on her skin gave her such bliss and made her feel so alive and warm inside?

He smiled softly as though reading her mind.

"I have never been with a woman," he explained, "never wanted to be with anyone but you. These past months in your presence have stirred my senses in ways I have never experienced. Because this is uncharted territory for me, I don't know my strengths in this regard ... nor do I know my weaknesses. And I fear, when it comes to you, my Passionate Rose, I have found only weakness within myself."

A rush of feeling swept through Christine at his stark confession. Wonder, that she could affect him so deeply, stirred her womanly heart. Compassion, that she should not test his endurance, prodded her ladylike conscience, though she truly had been innocent in that regard. Still, for one scandalous moment, she questioned the significance of her honor, or if she truly wanted to retain it. After coming alive in Erik's arms, after receiving a small measure of his love and sharing the gift of such soul-shaking passion – was there truly anything of importance beyond their strong need of each other? Who would even know but them?

At the wicked thought, she moved closer, searching his eyes. Shame mixed with the vestiges of desire lay within their smoky green depths, and a flash of blinding clarity opened her mind to a truth that shook her so hard she inhaled as though struck.

If he took her, if she put him in a position where he was helpless to resist, thus relinquishing his promise, the loss of her virtue might destroy him. Honor was the one moral fiber to which he held, the one verity that kept him from loathing himself utterly. She saw so much good in him, but his honor, with regard to her, was the only quality he saw about himself. And she knew in her heart if she did persuade him to lie with her, he would ultimately feel he had harmed her and would no longer consider himself worthy to be her protector. She couldn't let that happen. She could never again lose him. If she must wait, then, God help her, she would wait.

She took a steadying breath. "I would never willfully do anything to cause you distress, Erik."

"I know." His voice empty, he turned toward Orion. "We must eat. Another day of travel awaits."

Christine felt the same aching loss his manner reflected. Yet again the question she'd asked throughout these past weeks echoed within. _But how long must we wait ... how long ..._

Before he could unbuckle the saddlebag, Erik stared at the northern sky, his stance becoming alert. She had learned to read his emotions well and noted the alarm tensing his jaw as he looked at her, though his expression remained calm.

"We must go. Now."

She looked to the north. A thick cloud hovered scant miles away, similar to one she'd seen days before from a distance. A boiling mass of black, it appeared to have numerous wings as if composed of huge birds of prey and failed to resemble a cloud at all.

She drew her brows together in shocked confusion. Surely the appearance of ghostly black wings was a mirage and the cloud vapor, nothing more than an illusion?

Swiftly Erik extinguished the dying flames, helped Christine to mount, then swung up behind her. The fire from their passion still smoldered, and his hard warmth against her back, his arm encircling her waist, only stoked the need. She closed her eyes against the sweet agony of riding so close to him, recalling again the shocking wonders he had opened to her virginal mind…

Erik dug his heels into the horse's flanks and pushed Orion as if anxious to escape the hounds of hell. Even without the wings of Pegasus, the powerful stallion flew over the ground. Christine wondered what dread would drive Erik to such frenzy. He was as agitated as she'd been the previous night.

The memory of last night's mysterious tormenter that propelled her to seek comfort in her Angel's arms brought with it other memories. Of otherworldly shadows at the opera house. Of fear and hopelessness and devastation. Of being trapped, with no way out. Her eyes widened in horrified understanding as she realized whose presence she had sensed.

_My God, no …_

The Darkness had followed them.

Terror froze her blood as she now recognized the source of the cloud and who sent it. Death stalked them in the guise of the one they thought to have escaped. The spirit who called himself Phantom but was the epitome of all malevolence, a sworn enemy of Light and all who served in that realm.

Sharing Erik's panic, Christine gripped his arm while his hold tightened around her waist. The wind from their mad flight battered against her as Orion raced downhill. But she feared that no escape, no distance could protect them. Even as that bleak thought entered her mind a shadow crept overhead. She felt the chilling breath of evil nip at her back. Heard the beat of skeletal wings. Knew the horror of its enfolding grasp. As if fearfully compelled, she looked to the sky behind her, weak with dread.

"No, Christine! Don't look!" Erik cried too late.

Blackness descended before she could scream. And she remembered the light no more.

**xXx**


	14. The Battle Begins

**Chapter XIV**

**xXx**

.

Meg lit the lone candle beside her bed to dispel the darkness of her windowless room. Restless, she allowed her gaze to roam over the faded pattern of the wallpaper, as she had done whenever she grew bored. By now she must know every leaf there, every rose petal and stem. Confined to her bed, she felt as if she were perishing for lack of purpose. What was there for her to do? For what reason did she continue to exist?

Mère was the accomplished seamstress, not Meg, and dedicated to her task though Meg knew she would have preferred to teach dance again. Even now, though she'd toiled all night until the candles burned low, her mother sat in the parlor with the basting she'd brought home. Meg could see the dim glow of candles on the wall outside her door and knew her mother had never retired to bed last night. Meg herself had been unable to sleep and had heard the soft clearing of her mother's throat from time to time or the material rustle as she shifted in her chair.

Yet Meg's inability to sleep differed from any physical need that involved obligation. Her restlessness stemmed from a spiritual want for satisfaction. In the empty hours before dawn, disquiet whispered malicious tidings to her spirit, though she didn't understand the voice, or whether it came from the light or the darkness. Lately she discerned little, except for the bitter hatred that burned like acid in her heart toward the Vicomte. Her prayers had ceased, and she wondered if they were all for naught. Were a mortal's petitions even regarded? Or did they hit a wall of bronze in the sky, only to fall heedless to the earth?

Wishing to drown gloomy thoughts of the night in demanding activity of the day, and frustrated she could not do so, Meg sank her head back into the pillow and sighed. She hated self pity, detested it when La Carlotta had fallen into one of her woeful moods at the opera house, bemoaning her lack of continual attention. Meg certainly didn't want to be thought of as a burden to anyone.

But the pain in her leg gave constant distress, even with the laudanum the physician left and the herbs her mother steeped into a bitter tea. During his last visit, he seemed satisfied with her progress, but when Meg pressed him to know if she would walk again, he had been equivocal in his reply, annoying her to no end.

Determined to force happier thoughts, she remembered her childhood with Christine and the friendship they shared at the opera house. Often in the ballet dormitories, one or the other had tiptoed across the icy-cold planking in the chill hours of night to slip beneath the blanket of the other's cot for a few stolen moments. They would quietly giggle and share stories, or reminisce about their day, keeping their voices at a whisper lest Mère who slept on the other side of the thin wall, hear and scold them for being naughty.

Weeks after Christine's father died, her friend shared with her about hearing a beautiful voice sing from beyond the chapel wall. An angel, she'd said. Yet as the days passed and another childhood fantasy took hold, Meg forgot the incident. Until the evening of Christine's magnificent debut, when Meg found her friend alone in the chapel. Her face glowing with an ethereal light, she spoke in vague riddles difficult to understand and Meg sensed that Christine still believed the fairy tale of her youth, which gave her some cause for concern. Only later, at the masquerade ball, did she realize that the Maestro was the Angel of whom Christine spoke. She missed her dear companion and would give anything for a bedside chat right now.

An idea struck and Meg reached for the stationery box in the shallow drawer of the bedside table. If she couldn't speak to her friend, she would write a letter sharing all that had happened in the city that was once her home. She would compose thoughts on paper, and dispatch it once she learned their location. Doing this would surely ease her mind. Even better, it would equip her hands with a task, no longer leaving them idle.

She unstopped the jar of ink and picked up her quill. A long absent wave of eagerness washed through her as she began to write:

.

_My dearest Christine,  
I pray this letter finds you well and safe and at peace at last. Here we entertain a semblance of peace, but I fear it cannot continue._

_Since last we spoke, so much has happened to our fair city. Paris is up in arms with this new revolution, although Mère does not share in their enthusiasm. Likewise, I cannot help but wonder what will come of it. Strife or peace? Bitterness or amicability? I very much doubt the latter. What good has ever come to a city or country whose people revolted? Can they not see and learn from mistakes in the annals of history, that such efforts are useless and mere attempts to feed another's lust for power? We dealt with much the same in our opera kingdom, a harsh reminder of what a conspiracy to overthrow a rulership can cause. The reforms have brought about some improvement, that much I will admit, but I am troubled by the arrest of the priests. I see that little good can come from that._

_Mère feeds my desire to know the events, as I am laid up in my bed._

.

Meg stopped writing and frowned. The doctor's verdict concerning her accident remained a tender area in which she refused to venture. Denial had been the safety rope to which she clung, and which gave her the ability to continue living through the empty hours of each day.

She crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it to the counterpane. She did not wish to add to Christine's troubles, which she hoped were nonexistent. She retrieved a fresh sheet of paper, dipped her quill in the ink and wrote all she had up until the last sentence. She surveyed it with satisfaction then continued:

.

_By now you must officially be the Maestro's bride. I am happy for you, truly. To know such love as the two of you share is a dream I've long desired for my own life. Though whether or not such an event will occur is left at fate's door. And fate can be fickle: to one, giving all; to another, leaving nothing._

_Remember when we were young girls and we each spoke of the day we would find our life companions? Even then you were secretive, saying he must stir your soul with music. I didn't understand, then, but even at the tender age of fourteen, you spoke of him, did you not? Your Angel of Music, and the man who is now your husband. How I envy you your dream, Christine, and how I rejoice in your victory! My fondest wish was that I could have been a witness to see you joined in holy matrimony, but I will content myself with the knowledge that at least I helped you arrive to that point._

_The Vicomte continues to stalk the streets of Paris like a ravenous wolf, hunting you out and seeking news of your whereabouts. He disguises himself in old clothes, but if the people of this socialist republic were to discover his noble status, I have no doubt his fate would rival that which he had planned for the King_.

.

Shaken by the tide of bitter pleasure that welled up at the thought of a rope around the Vicomte's neck, Meg stopped writing and stared at the paper. Yes, she was incensed with him and blamed him for her accident. Yes, she felt annoyance that he persisted with his chase and exhibited only ill will toward those she'd sworn to serve and protect. Yet had she sunk so low to wish another person dead? Surely not! She shivered at the alarming thought.

Once described as having a placid personality, Meg always endeavored to get along with her fellow performers at the opera house, even the insufferable Signora Carlotta Giudicelli, a harrowing feat in itself. At the same time Meg remained withdrawn from the subjects who dwelt in the opera kingdom, while learning her duties under her mother's tutelage. Not until the Vicomte entered their small world had she experienced such a wide range of emotion, frightening in its intensity. Attraction, desire, envy, and now hatred. She disliked the bitter person she'd become, and he, too, was responsible for that! If she could write him out of her thoughts, she would. Perhaps if she wrote his foolish actions on paper that would serve to empty him from her mind.

.

_Three times the Vicomte has cornered Mère, twice at home, once in the streets. The last time she said he was most persuasive, almost causing her to reveal the information the Maestro entrusted to us. Yet do not fear, dear friend; the Vicomte has not destroyed her resolve. Nor will he. Mère is just as determined and fierce of character, as you no doubt will recall, since she instructed us in the ballet for nine years._

.

The word "ballet" jumped out in mockery, bringing to mind hopeless, broken dreams she wished to banish. Her hand began to shake. She could not do this. Not now.

Setting down the quill, she put the letter aside. As she did, her attention went to the single candle that burned on her bedside table. A sudden gust of air caught it, startling her. She looked in confusion to find the source of the wind, feeling in its heavy breath a chill that stirred wisps of her hair.

From an empty corner of the room shrouded in shadow, an indistinct whisper sent gooseflesh prickling along her skin. The flame flickered, rising and falling in a valiant effort to remain lit. The raspy whisper increased in volume, and alarm gripped her soul at the name she now heard.

_Chriiii-ssssstiiiiine_

Meg's heart froze in terror. She clutched the blanket, her fingers white-knuckled around its folds.

The lone candle blew out, casting her into complete darkness, and she screamed.

**xXx**

Darkness obliterated the daylight, sweeping a cloak of shadow onto the ground before them. Erik gripped the reins, bending low over his horse and pushing Orion at a breakneck pace. He held Christine against him, his arm wrapped as a band of iron above her waist. His Angel had fainted, and he felt almost grateful she was spared from their current nightmare, though she _had_ glanced behind her ... he refused to think what that could mean as he concentrated on escape.

Orion raced over the crest of a low hill. A copse of trees appeared in the distance. A strange, soft light glowed from within the dense wood, giving Erik mental pause but at the same time luring him forward. He urged Orion toward the thicket, hoping to find a place of safety within the trees. In this instance no sword of steel or Punjab lasso could save them. Weapons crafted by man remained powerless against the principalities of evil.

The shadow bore down upon them, blocking out all vestiges of the weak sun in the eastern sky. He glanced up as the chill of death breathed down upon his head.

Bat-like wings beat furiously outside a black mass that was no cloud, but a ghostly flock of creatures so vile, Erik's heart lurched. From within, hideous faces leered at him with gruesome smiles, gnashing sharp decayed teeth. He knew better than to let these minions of the Phantom discern his fear. They fed upon men's paralyzing terror, and to succumb to it could mean the end for him and Christine.

He felt the sharp prick of talons graze his back directly before Orion broke through the covering of trees, the trunks of which grew so close the pathway for his horse was narrow. The oppressive shadow lifted to be replaced by eerie green darkness cast by the low hanging branches. They increased in number the further he rode into the forest and the denser the thicket grew. A glance up into the boughs, so tightly interwoven he could see only coin-sized gaps of sky, showed Erik that the black cloud of doom still hovered. Yet it had not followed them into the forest. Was its sudden absence due to the mysterious light that had glowed from somewhere within? Erik scanned his surroundings for the white light, but it was nowhere. He decided it must have been nothing more than a hallucination. Perhaps the sun had caught a shimmering rock or a fall of water, creating the illusion.

With the threat of the Phantom at bay for the present, Erik eased his horse to a walk, before pulling the reins. Orion snorted, his breath shooting from his nostrils in quick pants. A thick sheen of sweat covered his black coat. The stallion needed rest after being ridden so hard. Otherwise they risked the chance of Orion going lame.

Erik set his concentration on Christine. His rigid hold around her slack form was the only thing that kept her atop the horse.

"Christine?"

She did not answer.

He spoke louder and gave her a little shake. Still she did not awaken. He spoke into her mind with the same results.

Dread raked through his soul. Erik pulled sharply on the reins to bring Orion to a quick halt.

"Christine!" he tried again with the same lack of response.

He dismounted with care, all the while keeping hold of her so she wouldn't fall to the ground. The creatures that chased them were terrifying enough to chill any man's blood, and she had glimpsed their ghostly visages.

Gently he tugged her wrist so that she fell sideways toward him and caught her in his arms. With worry he gazed upon her still face. Her lips were pale, her cheeks colorless.

Dropping to one knee, he carefully laid her on mossy ground at the base of a thick elm. "Christine, my love. It is time for you to awaken." He masked his fear and spoke as if she were merely sleeping; soon, her thick lashes would flutter as she came to and opened her beautiful brown eyes. Desperate for that to happen, he grasped her shoulder, again shaking her. When that failed to bring a response, he lightly slapped her hand and then her cheeks hoping to bring her to consciousness. They were ice-cold to his touch.

"Christine!"

His urgings for her to awaken intensified. Alarm shot through his heart with the precision of a crippling arrow, and he could no longer deny what was apparent. His beloved lay deathly still, as though the dark ferryman from the River Styx had tracked them from his netherworld to this remote forest, seeking to abduct her gentle spirit. Yet no physical death claimed his sweet Christine. Erik could see by the shallow rise and fall of her chest that she still breathed.

A violent rush of relief mixed with underlying terror had him drop from his knee to fall to sit beside her. Trembling, he sheltered her cold hand in his warm ones bringing her fingers to his lips. With infinite care, he drew her into his arms and held her close, resting his jaw lightly against her temple.

"Whatever treachery has claimed you, whatever dark spell has swept you away, it shall not have dominion over you, Mon Ange." His attention lifted to the black cloud, still evident beyond the trees, and his jaw tightened as he glared at the sky, while directing his words to her. "_This I vow to you!_"

A chill wind rose and stirred the ancient treetops, making them rustle and seem eerily to whisper, as if in challenge. With no source of mystical weaponry at his disposal and everything to lose if he failed, Erik prepared to embark on the most frightening and crucial battle of his lifetime to confront his oldest and cruelest adversary, a demon from hell who reviled all mercy.

And his beloved Angel was the prize.

**xXx**


	15. Fading Rose

**Chapter XV**

**xXx**

**.**

"Mère!"

Madame Giry awoke with a start, jabbing herself with the needle she still held. A bead of crimson appeared on the pad of her thumb, and she popped the tip in her mouth to rid herself of the blood. Quickly she set her basting aside and rose from her chaise. Grabbing the five-branched candelabra, she hurried to Meg's room.

"What is it, mon cher?"

Madame halted in the doorway and gripped the doorframe. In the dim glow of the candles, Meg's face appeared ghostly white. Her enlarged pupils glistened with fear.

"Margarette?" Alarmed, Madame hurried to the bed.

"There was a voice." Meg's words trembled. "It came ..." She pointed toward a shadowed corner of the room. "... from over there."

"A voice?" Madame set the candelabra on the bedside table and tested Meg's forehead with her fingers.

"I'm not feverish, Mère, I heard it as clearly as I hear you now. It came as a whisper. A frightening whisper. Almost … triumphant." She shivered and rubbed her arms.

Madame glanced toward the far corner, where Meg's cloak lay draped over a chair. Distorted shadows from the candelabra's five flames wavered along the walls in an eerie dance. "Perhaps you were only dreaming. Often when we first awaken, dreams can seem so real."

Meg shook her head in frustration, her mouth drawn tight. "This was no dream. The voice whispered to me, and then – a cold wind stirred and blew out the candle."

Madame's eyes went to the extinguished candle. A prickling of foreboding brought unease to her soul. "This voice, what did it whisper to you?"

"One word." Meg regarded her steadily. "A name. Christine. It was her name the voice whispered."

Madame clutched the collar at her throat, her eyes darting to the extinguished wick. "And then the candle blew out?"

"Yes." Meg gave an emphatic nod. "You know something, I can tell. What does it mean, Mère?"

She refrained from answering. After Meg's disclosure, she did not doubt her daughter had heard the voice. She had trained Meg, so that one day she would assume her role. Yet Meg possessed an innate knowledge of the supernatural realm Madame never attained. Moreover, Meg seemed unaware she was privy to such a gift. Madame first witnessed Meg's capacity for understanding when, as a child, Meg spoke of glimpsing a ghostly apparition in the opera house rafters as she and Christine practiced ballet. Later, she became a self-appointed herald and fearfully announced the Phantom's arrival to the opera kingdom, often sensing him before Madame became aware of his presence. Meg's high sensitivity to those things of the spirit realm both amazed and frightened her.

These past three days she had also experienced a feeling of urgency regarding the King and Christine, though she failed to understand its source and thought it might have stemmed from her confrontation with the Vicomte. Meg's experience confirmed Madame's worst fears, that her foreboding had nothing at all to do with the Vicomte.

And so, it was beginning again.

"Mère," Meg said more loudly, breaking into her mother's thoughts, "what does it mean?"

Madame composed her expression into a semblance of calm. "I cannot say for certain, but I believe Christine is in danger. The King as well. We must seek the source of Light, my pet. It is imperative that we intercede on their behalf and increase our petitions. It is all we can do at this time."

Meg visibly stiffened.

"Meg?"

"I cannot."

"Nonsense. You must put aside all personal reservations and engage in your duty."

"If my heart is no longer involved in such beliefs, how can I offer up petitions for what I do not feel?"

"Have you then renounced the Light?" Madame held her breath.

Tense seconds elapsed. Meg lowered her head and gave it a negative shake, relieving Madame's primary fear concerning her daughter.

"We must pray even when our souls are weary and our hearts are weak, chère. If we judge circumstances by feelings alone and act in that regard, we would find ourselves adrift and without direction. Life often contains surprises that can change a situation in an instant. Sometimes you must move by faith alone."

"Faith?" Meg scoffed. "I have no faith left."

"If that were true, you would have given up long ago."

"Perhaps I have."

"Non." Madame reached for her daughter's cold hands and cradled them in hers. "You are much stronger than you think."

"And yet I feel so weak."

"It is through our weakness that the Light is able to empower us, Meg."

She shook her head. "I don't understand. It makes no sense."

"Tenets involving the supernatural often make little sense to our feeble minds. But I've found that if we rely only on present feelings alone to alter our course, we don't seek that which is greater than ourselves. Because we are fallible, our best intentions can founder. The Vicomte's best intentions to help Christine have brought nothing but pain and failure, because he ignored what he should have done and gave in to his desires. In his heart, he believes his actions are commendable. Still, some part of his spirit cannot condone this wrong." Madame's words grew vague as she thought on that truth. "He once upheld the Light. He would know better ..."

Meg's eyes widened in alarm. "You won't tell him where they are?"

"Non. For a moment, when he spoke of the possible dangers they might encounter, I was sorely tempted. But it would serve no purpose except to harm, and my first loyalty is to my Maestro. As is yours." Madame gently squeezed Meg's hands, as if by doing so she could force her to understand. "We must act quickly, chère. If we don't make intercession for them, who will? Like it or not, this is the role into which you were born. You are my daughter. This task to serve has passed on to you, and you have been equipped for other things as well." She left it at that.

Meg nodded but Madame sensed by her resigned expression that her heart remained far removed from what she no longer considered a willing duty.

**xXx**

The Vicomte de Chagny presumed Madame Giry must have made her decision. Three days had elapsed since he waylaid her on the street, and she'd made no further contact. Neither she nor her daughter would help, that much was now certain, and he had exhausted his efforts in searching Paris for news of the Phantom and Christine.

They were in Spain, that much he knew. Yet it wasn't enough.

Despite the commoners' insurrection inside Paris, social events for the aristocracy outside the city proceeded as always, though perhaps not as often and with less flamboyancy. Tonight Raoul's parents hosted a dinner party for a number of their friends, with a light musicale concluding the festivities. Forcing all thoughts of Christine and the Phantom to the back of his mind, Raoul adopted the visage of the charming young aristocrat his mother expected and mingled with the guests. A few beribboned ladies dripping in jewels sent him interested glances, and one bold young woman fluttered her lashes at him beyond her open fan. To dally with the ladies held no appeal, though at one time he would have engaged in a mild flirtation with enthusiasm.

He joined a group of men who stood near the fireplace discussing politics.

"Thiers is up to some trickery, that much is certain," a young lord Raoul knew as Baron Richelaeu said when a pause stalled the conversation. "He changed tactics to save his skin, and spoke out against the war – a war he formerly agitated."

"And he only chose that recourse when France's defeat became imminent."

"Now he meets secretly with the Prussians."

"What's this?" Raoul grew alert.

"The _chef du pouvoir executif de la République,_or so his new title goes."

"You forgot to add the rest," Count Germonde added. "_En attendant qu'il soit statué sur les institutions de la France._"

The men laughed dryly at this.

"Yes, I knew he was elected the new chief of state – until the institutions of France are prescribed," Raoul amended to Count Germonde, who then gave a slight inclination of his head. "What I question is your source of information."

Baron Richelaeu held himself up proudly, as though affronted. "My brother was in Versailles two days ago. He himself witnessed Thiers enter a building with Prussian officials."

"So, then. He has sided with the enemy." Count Germonde's jaw hardened and he looked into his glass of wine, swirling it.

"We cannot know this for certain." Vicomte Larue, an older gentleman spoke. "For all his cowardice, Thiers holds the old Napoleonic regime in high regard. He fights for us, gentlemen, not against us."

"A matter of opinion."

The Vicomte Larue raised his glass. "Conceded."

The talk evolved to the revolution and how the people's rebellion should be handled. Weary of conversation involving the Marxist agenda, which he'd heard on a continual basis during his search in Paris, Raoul excused himself.

"Vicomte, might I have a moment of your time?"

The silken words came out almost in a purr, and Raoul turned to see the woman with the fluttering lashes and fan.

"It would be my pleasure ..." His words trailed off. He knew he'd met her once before but retained no memory of the name.

"Lady Madeline." She sounded somewhat put out. "We met at the Christmas Ball last year. You brought ... a friend."

The evident slur against Christine raised Raoul's ire but he maintained a veneer of polite indifference. She had insisted on keeping their engagement secret. No one could have known she was his fiancée at the time. "How may I be of service to you?"

"So cold and formal." She affected a mock pout. "I have offended, non? I wished merely to speak with you, to learn if you have found the masked man of that night."

He regarded her with some surprise. "You have interest in this?"

"But of course. I was there."

Raoul lifted his brows at this unexpected disclosure.

"He did have a lovely voice, I suppose, but such a horrid face once his mask was removed." She gave a delicate shudder. "I hope you find him, and that they hang him!" Her eyes flashed a moment's hatred.

"Indeed?" Such a vehement response from a lady amazed him.

She shrugged. "Our party was almost crushed by the chandelier when it fell. Thankfully we managed to escape, unscathed. And oh, what he did to that opera! It was ghastly, was it not?"

Her ability to flit from subject to subject reminded him of his mother. For that reason alone, he assumed himself able to keep up with her pedantic musings.

"It _was_ his opera?" She looked at Raoul for confirmation.

"Yes, it was the Phantom's opera."

She fanned herself. "The people of Seville would have shed bitter tears to see how he crucified the _Don Juan. _It was from that city the opera originated, but of course you must know that, being a highly respected patron of the arts." She closed her fan with a snap and tapped it against his sleeve in mild flirtation.

His senses grew alert. "The people of Seville ..." He repeated the words, hardly daring to believe this sudden twist in fate.

"But of course. You have been to Seville perhaps?"

In his excitement, he barely managed the polite niceties. "No, regrettably I have not. It has been a pleasure, Lady Madeline, but I must excuse myself. There is a most urgent matter to which I must attend." He inclined his head, raising her glove and kissing the air just above it, then hurried away, leaving her staring after him with her mouth agape.

Spurred by a new sense of purpose, Raoul strode toward the study where his father kept scrolls of maps. Yes, he had heard of Seville, or its location rather. In Spain.

His heart thudded against his ribs.

_I have you now, Phantom._

**xXx**

In all of his wretched lifetime, Erik had never known abject fear. Pain he had experienced, from fright, suffering, hatred, even uncertainty. But this kind of fear had been lost to him.

Until now.

His cherished Angel of Music lay silent, lost inside a world he could not reach. In the nine years Christine lived in the opera house and Erik protectively watched over her from the shadows, she'd rarely been ill. Yet this dark power that held her soul captive, cloaking her in a deathly pall, did not come from the physical realm.

No magician's trick could fight the powerful darkness that sought to claim her. What he had learned of the black arts was initiated through his involvement with the Phantom, and Erik could not battle the strength of the Phantom with evil's own devices and hope to win. He had shattered three mirrors, to rid himself of that evil, to loose the Phantom's control over him. But no mirrors existed in this godforsaken forest that had become both sanctuary and trap. If Erik were to venture outside its perimeter, he would cross over to the Phantom's side, unarmed.

Earlier, he finished the task he had begun at their campsite and loosened the laces of Christine's corset so she could breathe easier. He could scarcely believe that mere hours ago this fragile shell of his Angel had been so alive and warm in his arms. Now that the chill of night dampened the air, she began to shiver. He covered her with his cape, tucking its heavy folds around her slight frame, helpless and wishing he could do more. His stomach ached with emptiness, but he couldn't think of food, didn't dare leave her side even to retrieve his saddlebag.

Señora Alvero had given them a bounty of cheese, bread, and dried figs for their journey, as well as a container of wine from her orchards and one of water drawn from her well. As Erik gently positioned Christine's head on his thigh and stroked her hair away from her face, he thought again of the words the Spanish woman spoke when he'd made clear his intention of repaying her, by prying a ruby loose from his dagger. "Keep your jewel. You and the Senorita have given me the greatest payment of all," she told him. "The gift of your song. That is worth more than any jewel." Moved by her words, the power of speech eluded Erik, and he'd only given a vague nod in acknowledgement.

When they had first approached Señora Alvero's cottage, his fear for Christine's welfare had been the sole reason he chose to reveal himself to another mortal. He had squashed the familiar dread that overshadowed him, and for the first time in his adult life willingly made contact with a stranger, seeking out help. Conversely, his desire had always been to reach the world through his music, the knowledge that he'd done so for one lonely old woman giving him hope that his aspirations _could_ come to pass. She had not feared him, though she'd never seen him absent from his mask. He had satisfied her curiosity as to its existence with a remark that he'd been wounded. A truth he lived many times over. The wounds inside his heart had been ripped open time and again by others who feared and ridiculed his deformity. With Christine beside him, desiring to share his life, for a short time his dream had truly seemed attainable. But what hope was now left?

Sinking further into a pit of despair, he tried not to allow its darkness to imprison him. He must remain strong for his gentle Angel.

"Christine." Tenderly he ran his fingers through her hair, smoothing the tangled ringlets back from her brow, smooth, cold and pale like the wax of a mannequin. "To what dark realm have you been taken? How can I reach you? What must I do?"

In repose, her bloodless features mirrored that of an angelic being, a pallid beauty of marble perfection. Fierce emotion knotted his heart while silent terror waged war in his soul. As had occurred numerous times in the past, the wealth of his passionate feelings for his beloved melded into an inborn composition of endless longing. The notes swelled within until he could no longer contain them and his music spilled forth as a tender song of adulation from his lips, almost a prayer:

_"The moon sheds its mantle around you,  
Enchantment's pearl illumines your face.  
A crown of stars hovers above you,  
Earthly goddess of beauty and grace._

_If I could I would command the heavens  
To seize night's advance and prolong day's reign,  
To cause the sun to warm your soul, my beloved  
My heart's song, my music, my queen._

_So still you lie clothed in the silver raiment of night,  
Oh, Angel of Music, divine,  
Wreathed in precious jewels crafted of radiant starlight,  
All pales by thy beauty that shines._

_Fair rose, never fade, let my everlasting love  
Nurture the depths of your soul,  
Embrace the light hidden in the heavens above,  
Life's breath upon thee … again to … bestow."_

The final words lodged in his throat, choking him, and Erik could barely release them in melody. Squeezing his eyes shut, he swallowed hard and clenched his teeth to quell the tears. Nonetheless, tracks of moisture ran down his cheeks.

He gathered her still form closer to his heart, burying his face in her soft, thick curls. His lips gently brushed her cool cheek and his arms tightened protectively around her.

He would not let her go. _He would not!_

A flash of light behind his closed eyelids made Erik open them and stare into the dense thicket. His mouth parted in shock.

Far within the center of the forest the same white light he had glimpsed at dawn glimmered softly, though dusk had begun to paint the green darkness that surrounded them with deep, lengthening shadows. Above the treetops, the foul cloud remained, but it had traveled no farther into the thicket. Erik shot a measuring glance upward, past the highest branches, then again toward the light that glowed at a level with the tree trunks. It pulsated five times, as if beckoning him to come.

Without understanding why, he knew he must go to it. For the present, the Phantom's minions were held at bay, though for what reason Erik failed to comprehend. But he wouldn't risk leaving Christine alone. Even if it appeared that evil already held her in its skeletal grasp, he would not tempt the darkness and allow it to have further hold.

With extreme care Erik shifted her slight figure so he could move to his feet, then bent to scoop his beloved into his arms, with his cape still covering her. Her head hung low over his sleeve, a broken blossom on a fragile stem. Her still face pointed upward toward the threatening skies.

Erik tamped down his fear for her and strode cautiously toward the strange flickering glow.

**xXx**


	16. In the Darkness

**Chapter XVI**

**xXx**

**.**

Erik ventured farther into the forest, his beloved clasped tightly in his arms. A sea of mist drifted from nowhere and closed in around them. The light ahead flickered out, leaving Erik in the midst of a strange luminosity that appeared to emanate from the mist itself. The white vapor remained his sole source of illumination, allowing him to see where he walked. All else stood sheathed in green darkness.

"Who are you?" His shout sounded thin in the expanse of wood surrounding them.

Silence met his demand.

His jaw clenched, and he halted his measured advance. "What do you want with us? With me?" His impatient queries thundered through the mist, but no answering voice rewarded him, to put his anxiety at rest.

Just as he was about to end whatever despicable game had coerced him, the unwitting pawn, to seek out this unexplained power which evidently wished to remain unknown – and he turned to retrace his steps to where he'd left Orion – the white light shimmered again, catching his eye. Erik swung his attention to the left.

The light flickered softly through the trees, beckoning him forward. Compelled, Erik approached, curious, cautious. He'd not fallen into any trance. While the source of light remained a mystery and perturbed him that he knew nothing of its origin, something peaceful about its luminescence hinted at protection.

He came to a clear, shimmering brook that wound further into the forest, beyond his scope of vision. At the water's edge, two oaks grew close, their boughs forming a lofty arch. The light ceased pulsating and glowed steadily beyond the water until it waned, then completely vanished.

The mist also began to dissipate, but did not completely diminish. In its pale light Erik studied the mossy ground, stunned to see an herb growing near the trunks that he recognized for healing properties. Christine's present state of being didn't stem from an affliction of the body, but from what she'd told him and what he himself witnessed, she had allowed her health to deteriorate in past months. She would need physical strength to endure until he could fathom some method of freeing her from this dark spell that held her spirit and mind captive.

The ground near the brook proved surprisingly dry, and with extreme care Erik laid his Angel on the soft covering of moss beneath the trees, covering her to the neck with his heavy cape. A strand of her hair caught on the clasp, and he gently worked it loose then smoothed the curl to her shoulder.

"Christine?"

Numerous times Erik had spoken her name, hoping she would suddenly open her eyes and answer him. A futile hope, but he couldn't prevent himself from speaking to her, from trying to reach her, any more than he could deny himself from drawing breath. He engulfed her fragile hand in his strong one, her cold palm pressed to his, and covered her slender fingers with his other hand.

"Christine, can you hear me? If you can, squeeze my hand."

Her hand remained limp in his. He lifted it to his mouth and held it there. _Where have you gone, beloved?_

Desperate to reach her, he sang into her mind, as he had countless times since the darkness took her captive, once more hoping he could somehow bridge the distance between them so she could hear the music that filled his soul:

_I sing to you of our love  
Listen to it, so softly calling,  
Enfold me in your bright hope,  
And free my heart to beat once again_

_Warm me with the glow of your smile  
Feel it, so sweetly calming,  
For in your arms I have found  
All that heaven bestows to one desolate man_

_You gave me the treasure of all that you are  
Now let me be to you all that I am  
Music, my Music, heed this my plea  
Christine ... dearest Angel ... return to me._

**xXx**

Lost inside a world of darkness, Christine could find no door of escape. Like a sleepwalker suddenly thrust into a bizarre realm flanked by the gatekeepers of wakefulness and slumber, she moved with wary unease through an obscure mist. Shard after shard of tall black slate lined the unmarked path and wound between slopes of jagged rock. She moved closer to one of many narrow pillars that loomed twice her height in a mountain of rough rock, hoping to find a door or passage there. Promptly she jumped back at the frightening, distorted image of herself in the slick mirror-like stone.

Invisible fingers of panic clawed at her sanity. Fear robbed her of breath. How had she gotten here? Where _was _she? She could remember nothing. Nothing ...

Thin mocking laughter echoed in the distance, voluble enough to raise chill bumps on her arms. She clutched her skirts and attempted to back away from the macabre slate image, from the darkness, from the ghostly mist, but no matter which direction she turned, she encountered more of the same.

She quickened her pace, determined to find an exit out of this black hell into which she'd been trapped. Shadows of gray wraiths followed, viciously swirled and darted around her. Christine screamed when they dove in close to her face, but upon leaving her throat, her cries were absorbed, smothered into walls of silence.

Clapping her hands over her ears, she came to an abrupt halt and squeezed her eyes shut, hoping, praying that the nighttime wraiths would simply vanish if she paid them no heed.

_Christine ... dearest Angel ... return to me._

Christine sucked in a breath as her Angel's melodious voice filled her mind and refreshed the dry cracks of her timid heart.

"Erik," she whispered though no sound was audible.

_Angel of Music, my heart, my Music, hold fast to me dear Angel ..._

"Where did you go, Mon Ange? How can I find you again?" Tears of panicked frustration seeped through her lashes and trickled down her cheeks. Again she had no voice. Still she spoke into the void. "Please tell me how to break loose from this prison of darkness. Please, don't leave me here!"

Silence upon silence answered, vacant as a death knell.

_Sing to me, Angel of Music. _She concentrated on singing into his mind. _Help me, my Angel of Music._

Why had he left her in this terrible place? No, he wouldn't do such a thing, she must be mistaken. Erik loved her. So how had she come to be here? She could remember nothing since that morning at their campsite. Darkness covered her mind. Had hours passed or days? She had no concept of time.

Her desperate questions persisted, snatched up in a whirlwind of uncertainty as Christine gathered courage and opened her eyes.

The wraiths had vanished.

Catching a trembling breath in gratitude, she walked through the dark mist, further into the yawning blackness that contained no end. A forgotten memory tugged at the edges of her mind, something she sensed was of great importance. What? What must she remember?

A din of maniacal laughter exploded from beyond the rocks nearby, tearing through the silence. Christine halted, frozen in her tracks. A blast of fresh shock caused her blood to run cold as she recognized the source of the laughter. Terrified, she whirled around and raced back the way she'd come. Her breath burned in her chest. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Still she fled, certain that if she stopped for one moment, she would again be chained – and this time never break free.

_Oh my Angel, please help me! Where are you?_

**xXx**

At this rate, he would never be gone from this place.

Raoul dismissed his dawdling manservant and moved to the four-poster to pack his own valise. The precise manner in which his clothes were folded did not matter to him. He wanted only to be gone from here, now that he'd discovered the Phantom's whereabouts.

A train would be the fastest and most expedient route to Spain, _if _France's economy weren't so underdeveloped in that area of transport, unlike its neighbors. The only existing rails in the entire country radiated from Paris to connect chief cities to the capital. Still, Raoul believed he held the ace. He had won high acclaim for his equestrian skills, and he sensed the Phantom would travel more slowly now that he'd put Paris behind. Since from what he had seen women were wont to be in need of coddling, Christine would require frequent considerations. Raoul wouldn't be far behind when the two entered Seville, and this time no magician's trick would hold him at bay, such as the one cast that long ago morning when he followed Christine and the Phantom to the cemetery, even taking a shortcut through fields to get there before them. That day their carriage had raced ahead in a manner that defied time and momentum, leaving Raoul far behind. This time, the Phantom wouldn't know to expect him, to place any spell that would aid his despicable cause or hinder Raoul's purpose.

"Raoul, I should like a word with you."

Startled from his grim ruminations he turned to the doorway Linton had just vacated to see his father standing there. The Comte's mouth was more pinched than usual, and under shaggy brows his eyes appeared somber. A pale metal gray, they held a fierce expression reminding Raoul of former boyhood days when he had endured the Comte's strict censure. The subject to be discussed must be crucial for his father to pay a visit to Raoul's rooms. Only one other time could Raoul remember him doing so.

On that winter day his father scolded him, bringing up such words as "disgrace" and "failure", due to the boyhood prank that almost earned Raoul a dismissal from the elite academy where he received academic instruction. Using paste to adhere the pages of his professor's tome resulted in ten vicious slaps on Raoul's palms with a willow switch by his instructor and a sound thrashing from his father at semester's end. His palms had bled from the professor's cruel form of justice, but the wounds his father inflicted to his heart with his cutting words caused far greater pain. By the time he approached his fifteenth year, Raoul learned well the stern lesson to place his childhood behind him, but not until he became a young man did he fully do so. On that unforeseen day, he began his apprenticeship in a different venue, as a messenger for the Light, though none in his family were aware of his calling. And it must remain that way, despite his father's low opinion of his worth.

"Father." Raoul's nod was wary.

"Were you planning to leave us?" The Comte's gaze shifted to the open valise on the counterpane.

"I'm traveling to Spain."

Hard as steel, the Comte's eyes flicked to Raoul's. "Your mother spoke of a woman you've been chasing. I should like to hear more."

Raoul frowned at his father's scornful tone when he referred to the girl he adored. "Christine and I have known one another a long time. The summer I was ten we met by the seashore. You'll recall when we vacationed there? I rescued her scarf from the ocean."

"Damnable nonsense. That was nine years ago, and you've not spoken to her in all this time? Hardly depicts what you refer to as a lengthy acquaintance."

"In past months we've renewed our friendship."

His father released a dismissive grumble. "Your mother tells me that upon your introduction to the Dowager Comtesse, you mentioned you were engaged."

Raoul steeled himself for what was coming. "Yes."

"And what title does she hold? From whose family does she come?"

"Her father was Gustave Daae."

"Daae ... Daae ..." Brows drawn together, the Comte searched his mind for the name. Suddenly his sharp gaze sliced into Raoul. "Not the Swedish violinist?"

"The same."

"I forbid it."

Raoul stiffened at the ominous pall of his father's tone. "She's a lovely girl with a sweet disposition. You will admire her once you come to know her."

"Then it's fortunate that day will never arrive. Sweet disposition or not, is this not the same Christine Daae once employed at the Opera House? And was she not partially responsible for the tragedy there? With that Phantom the police were searching for?"

Raoul kept his tone level. "She captivated the emperor and the audience with her voice, which could entrance the angels. She was not responsible for what happened that night."

"Still. A chorus girl, Raoul? She is nothing more than a chorus girl, and one day you shall be Comte. You'll not besmirch the de Chagny name by marrying this woman. I tell you, I'll not have it!"

Not trusting himself to speak, Raoul clenched his jaw and continued packing.

"You choose to disregard my orders?"

"Forgive me, Father, but Christine Daee is a lovely girl and I'll not stand here and listen to another degrading word spoken about her character. I love her!"

Silence stretched in tight coils around them, neither man willing to give an inch. The Comte cleared his throat with a hoarse cough and relaxed his stance. Raoul instantly went on guard.

"Simply because you think you love the girl doesn't necessitate a marriage to her." His father's tone lightened considerably. "Take her as your mistress if you cannot do without her charms. I'm not refusing you your pleasures. All the gentry have partaken of a little tête-á-tête now and then. I myself have indulged."

Raoul felt sickened by what he suggested, though his confession came as no shock. "I would never do her such a dishonor."

His father's face hardened into ruddy stone. "That is your decision alone to make. But hear me well, Raoul – you'll not marry this commoner and give her the de Chagny name! I'll not have a chorus girl living in my household, nor the blood of our noble ancestors mingling with that of the working class, should a child result from such a union!"

"Then perhaps it's time I left."

Taken aback, his father stared at Raoul as thick silence again settled between them. It was a moment before the Comte spoke.

"You speak with resolve, yet have you truly considered what you propose? Your impulsive attitude demonstrates your lack of maturity. This isn't the first occasion you've spoken or acted rashly without considering all that's at stake." The Comte clasped his hands behind him and paced the floor, throwing Raoul a sidelong glance. "What would you do without your monthly allowance? Without your fine horses and your wardrobe of costly linens? Because if you leave here against my wishes and marry this creature, I _will _cut you off without a franc to your name."

He ceased his swift tread and spun to face Raoul, who stood on the other side of the bed. "You'll not receive a franc, do you hear? And if you still choose to leave this estate to carry out your reckless plan, then you'll leave with nothing but the clothes on your back! I'll not have another scandal tarnish this family – I'll not have it!"

With this last shouted declaration, the blood rushed from his face, leaving his skin ashen. His steely eyes widened in shock. He clutched at the lapels of his frock coat, his fingers clawing at his chest, and staggered, grabbing wildly for the bedpost with his other hand.

"Father!"

Raoul hurried around the bed but before he could catch him, the Comte de Chagny crumpled to a heap at his son's feet.

**xXx**


	17. Return to Me

**Chapter XVII**

**xXx**

**.**

Raoul's mother trembled in his arms. "Whatever shall I do without him? I feel so lost."

"Let us wait and hear what the physician has to tell us." Raoul tried to comfort her, but she would not be consoled.

"Oh, Raoul, I simply know I shall lose him this time." She buried her head against his chest, dampening his shirt with her tears. "How can he do this to me, now, what with the revolution and all the horror it has brought?"

To a stranger, her flippant words might seem callous, but Raoul knew they hid a heart devoted to her lifelong companion. Just as he and Christine had been childhood sweethearts, Raoul's parents' families had been friends for generations, and though their marriage was arranged, neither party objected. Theirs was a union born of mutual fondness, not soul-searing love. Yet upon occasion, such as today, Raoul felt his mother's affection for his father went deeper than she'd let either of them know.

Raoul heard the upstairs door close. "Dry your tears, Mother. The physician approaches." He pushed his handkerchief into her hands, and she turned her back to the staircase to dab at her lashes and plump cheeks.

While his mother collected herself, Raoul watched the elderly doctor lumber down the stairs. They creaked under the strain of his massive girth. His gray-stubbled jowls quivered as he shook his head at Raoul, sending a jolt of dread through him. The physician looked toward Raoul's mother, and his somber expression quickly shifted into a pleasant mask as she turned to face him, still a bit unsteady but with dignity.

"Comtesse. This has been a great trial for you. I insist that you lie down. I will give you something to help you sleep."

"S'il vous plaît, I must know."

"He is alive. Further explanations can wait for the moment. As your physician, I advise bed rest. We do not wish for you to fall into a state of collapse as well."

His mother looked as if she were on the verge of a breakdown. She couldn't stop trembling, and her red-rimmed eyes were as wide and pleading as a child's. Raoul eyed the man, an old family friend, and knew he wouldn't speak with such quiet authority if the news was not grave.

"He's right, Mother. You haven't slept the entire night."

"Of course he's right." The Dowager Comtesse swept into the room. "My dear, I couldn't help but overhear." Her sturdy arm wrapped around his mother's shoulders and in a no-nonsense manner she herded her toward the stairs. "You must rest. I'll share any and all news with you upon your awakening."

"But what if he asks for me?"

"Should that be the case, then Raoul shall fetch you. Come now. Watch your step. There's a dear."

Raoul watched his aunt take control of the situation and gently propel his mother up the stairs as if she were a trusting child seeking safety. The comparison fit. At times his mother appeared little like a grown woman and more a naive girl. The doctor followed them.

While Raoul awaited his return, he moved to the terrace and the huge windows that opened out onto a sprawling green lawn. The de Chagny lands covered a wide acreage, and from this angle, he could just see the cluster of tenants' cottages through the trees. The rising sun cast diluted pink upon the rooftops while to the west the skies were gray with an impending storm.

One day, perhaps sooner than he thought, this estate would be his sole responsibility. He had always known he would inherit the title, but now that truth held no appeal. His mind replayed the confrontation with his father, as it had numerous times since the Comte's collapse. How Raoul wished he could relive those few moments! He should have withheld airing his intentions regarding Christine to a day when his father was physically stronger. Another layer of guilt coated the shame he had struggled with since Meg's injury. How much more self-reproach could his shoulders bear?

Raoul sensed the physician's presence before he heard him and turned, steeling himself for his report.

"I assume I have no need to tell you that your father is very ill." Dr. Mornay came straight to the point. "It's his heart. The recent bout of influenza he suffered has weakened him and made the attack that much more difficult. His constitution has always been stronger than that of most men his age, which aided him through difficulties concerning previous health matters, but now ..." He shook his head, leaving no doubt as to the grim message he did not convey.

Raoul clenched his hands at his sides in helpless distress then relaxed them. "Will he live?"

"It's too soon to say. He requires complete bed rest, no sudden shocks or upsets. He must be kept quiet. Make him as comfortable as possible. I would advise posting a trusted servant at his bedside at all times."

"Of course." Raoul thought of his father's manservant, Claude, and how loyal he was to his master.

"Ye-esss," the doctor drew out the word and shifted his medical bag to his other hand as though agitated. "Which brings me to another matter."

Raoul waited.

"Your father was lucid enough to make his requests known. He wishes you to escort your mother and aunt to your aunt's home in Rouen. Tomorrow."

Raoul stared at him in disbelief. "Mother would never agree, especially at a time like this. What could Father be thinking?"

"My apologies, Vicomte, but it is my professional opinion that his wishes should be taken into serious consideration." The man's eyes were somber. "The stress of being so near to Paris with the revolution underway is harrowing enough for your mother, not at all good for her health. She's not a woman of strong constitution, and I must stress that your father needs peace and quiet during this time."

Raoul heard what the man omitted out of courtesy. With his mother's flighty ways and incessant talk, the Comte would have little peace or quiet.

"Should Father not also go with us to Rouen?" Raoul argued. "Surely you cannot suggest we leave him alone at the estate?"

"The Comte should not be moved, and certainly should not embark on such a tiring journey. According to your father, Claude is an attentive servant. I have no qualms about leaving him in such capable hands."

Once again, his path had been chosen for him. In less than twenty-four hours, Raoul went from plans of traveling to Spain, to almost losing his father, and now being told he must leave for Rouen. "Is there no alternative?" He certainly didn't want to be the one to break the news to his mother.

As though reading his thoughts, the doctor's voice gentled. "No, none that would not threaten your father's life. I will explain matters to the Comtesse if you wish."

One day, perhaps sooner than he thought, Raoul would assume authority and make all decisions regarding this household, which included the unpleasant tasks. He looked up at the doctor, his mouth grim. "No, I'll tell her. Is there anything else I should know?"

"Non, Vicomte. I have said what I felt I must."

"Merci."

The man gave a parting nod and left Raoul to his desired solitude.

He stared hard at the rolling landscape shadowed from storm clouds that crept across the sky. Somehow he must conceive a method to continue with his plans regarding the Phantom's capture and Christine's rescue, and at the same time honor his father's wishes to accompany his mother to Rouen. If he could cut himself in half, he thought wryly, it would make the task that much easier. How had life become so complicated?

Drops of rain hit the beveled glass with sudden fury, hard as pellets. With their distracting appearance, an idea struck, and he wondered why he had never considered it before.

Raoul hastened to his father's study. Once there, he removed blotter and ink from the desk's confines and, sitting down, began to write.

**xXx**

Each excruciating minute passed into the next, until one hour and then one torturous day elapsed. Only once did Erik hear Christine's faint cry for help in his mind, but when he responded, eager that they had at last made contact, she again fell silent, and his heart again slipped into despair.

Unable to help in any other way, he tended to her physical needs. He made a tea from the root of the remedial herb he'd ground into a powder. Carefully, he held her head and shoulders up, trickling bits of the healing brew into her mouth. The liquid dribbled from the corners of her pale lips, useless. He tried again with the same result.

Bending close, he laid his lips near her ear. "Christine, please ... Please if you can hear me, you must take this to help you regain your strength."

She did not respond.

He began to sing into her mind, encouraging her. Leaning against the trunk of one oak, he rested her head against his chest, and with his other hand lightly massaged her throat as he again dribbled the tea past her lips. He nearly broke down in tears of relief when he felt her swallow once, then twice, though still she did not awaken.

When he could no longer bear to look upon her forlorn figure, for fear his heart would break, Erik stormed through the thicket in an unsuccessful attempt to purge his helpless frustration. In the protective cove to which the light had led them, he sensed she would remain safe. With his sword, he viciously tore at the undergrowth that barred his way, taking out on the vegetation his incapacity to reach or help his beloved. Always he stayed within sight of Christine, in case she awakened. He had only to turn his head to see her. Never again would he leave her, and if that meant they must stay in this forest until she was well, then so be it. Seeking aid wasn't an option. No physician could mend a captive spirit or a tortured soul.

Erik stared up into the darkness, which had seeped lower and spread further over the trees. "Why ...? _Why, damn you?!_"

He clenched his teeth against additional questions, knowing full well the reason. The Phantom abhorred losing to anyone. Once he considered a soul his property he fought to keep it. Both Erik and Christine had been chained to the dark spirit's machinations for years. Up until months ago, at the mirror door, Christine's bonds had been tied solely through Erik. He closed his eyes against the terrible knowledge of his part in the capture of her mind.

As the day progressed in its merciless advance, he wished to stall the minutes. The more time that elapsed, the less certain he felt that he could bring back his Angel. He ate little, enough to maintain strength so he could encourage his precious fading rose. Upon her, he focused his entire being. Christine _was _his world. If she did not return, he would not wish to go on existing.

Night fell. The green darkness thickened, intrusive, menacing. Her body again shivered despite his heavy cloak he'd swathed around her. Still she made no sound, not even a whimper. What strange, silent evil had stolen his beloved? That it came from the Phantom, he did not doubt. But how to fight the demon?

Erik stretched out on the ground beside her and tucked his cape securely around both of them. Drawing her close to his warmth, he settled her head against his chest, near the frantic beating of his heart. His arms tightened around her in a vain effort to keep her from slipping further away into whatever dark abyss had claimed her.

Snatches of sleep fought his exhausted mind, but he jerked himself awake each time, fearful to allow slumber to overtake him. Fearful that to do so might be the very moment the Phantom's minions would seize Christine from his protective hold. Yet he could not fight two emotionally strenuous days and nights without any sleep at all and soon fell into uneasy slumber.

He awoke with a start. In the gray predawn, he craned his head to look down at her. Christine lay so still, so pale. He moved one arm from her back to touch her cheek and swiftly withdrew his hand from her icy skin.

Panic ripped through his heart. Swiftly he struggled to sit up, holding her fast against him. Only then did he feel the shallow rise and fall of her chest against his and know she still lived. His relief came out in a burst of exhaled air, as if he'd been drowning, the fear that she'd left him so real he had to close his eyes against the onslaught of hot tears and regain control of his tattered breathing.

Silently, he ridiculed his ineptness. All of his genius was a waste if he could not help his Angel when she needed him most. The same questions tore through his mind, relentless, receiving no answers. What black spell of the Phantom's had so mercilessly torn her from him and dragged her under these silent veils of darkness? How could he fight against this evil? God, there had to be a way!

Gently he laid her back down on the mossy earth. He prepared more of the healing tea, and again helped her swallow it. As he did, he couldn't help notice she seemed to have faded more since yesterday. The hollows of her cheeks were more pronounced and faint blue shadows painted the fragile skin beneath her lashes. She seemed little more than a vestige of her former self, though incongruously her skin glowed with the luminescence of a pearl.

"Oh, Christine." A tear slid down his cheek and dropped onto her pale one. "_You cannot leave me_." He fanned thick strands of her curls to one side and placed his mouth against her ear. "Live, Christine. Live." He brushed his lips over her still, cold ones. _Live …_

He tried to reach her by sheer force of his will alone. Yet though his will was strong, her flesh was weak, already ravaged by the punishment she inflicted upon herself when she'd almost wasted away from a broken heart ... and all because of him.

Guilt washed through Erik's soul, but not for his agreement to take her with him. He knew the Phantom well enough to realize distance would have only further served the dark spirit's purpose. At least since Erik had not left her behind, he could now give all of himself to his beloved in an attempt to bring her back, something he wouldn't have been able to do if she remained at Señora Alvero's. Had this darkness claimed her without his presence, her captivity to death's chains might have been absolute. He was grateful he'd given in to her pleas to join him, but wished now he'd also given true regard to her quiet, steadfast words of days ago. Only now, when he realized he might lose her, did he begin to understand.

_Together_ they were strong, and in so many ways – through their unity in music; in the bloom of their shared love; with their ability to face the unknown, girded by one another's silent support.

Like her, he merely existed during their prolonged separation after the opera house fire, his soul and spirit empty vessels in need of her vibrant presence to fill them. He had allowed himself a taste of her splendor in shadowing her, to watch over her safety against those ruthless fools who in their anger at her loyalty to him might seek retribution for the fire he caused. But he'd also been powerless to stay away, craving her presence, if only from the shadows. Though he whispered her name on a few of those occasions, unable to prevent the need for even the smallest connection, he never came forward until the day he'd seen her so broken at the cemetery and heard her pitiable words of despair. Only then, when she reentered his life with her sweet persistence and hopeful love did he feel truly alive again.

Needing to hold her, to curb the rising fear that she might not return to him this time, Erik gently moved her head so it lay cushioned in his lap. "Forgive me, Christine. Forgive me." He stroked her hair away from her brow. "I vow to you I will never let anything separate us again. I will keep you with me always. Only come back to me." He sang songs of love, a river of adoration flowing into her mind, until his soft words ran aground in the emotion that threatened to choke him. If he knew how to pray, if he believed God would listen to the monster he'd cast out, he would lie prone with his face buried against the earth in his desperation and vow anything in return for Christine's resurgence.

A shadow fell upon her face. Erik looked up in shock. A pall of darkness swept nearer, breaking through the trees. Deep within the boiling mass, lightning flashed in bursts of blue light. The fear of losing her rose up so strong the metallic taste of it filled his mouth. His pleas to her became desperate. Clamping his teeth together, he moved to take hold of her upper arms and shook her fiercely.

"Live, Christine! You will not succumb to this evil! Do you hear? _I will not let you!"_

Directing his anxious frustration to the black cloud that swirled to encase them in a violent wind, he shook his fist at it. "I will fight for her! Do you hear? If necessary I will find a way to venture into your hell of darkness that has captured her and bring her back from this accursed black spell! Do you hear, Phantom? _I will fight you_ before I let you take her again! Even if to do so means I must die in her place. You will not have her, damn you! _You will not!_"

A sunburst of blinding white light shattered the darkness to Erik's left, and he swung around in surprise. The light dimmed, and the dark cloud thickened, advanced. The light burst forth again, burning with radiance, and the cloud thinned, retreated.

And in that moment Erik understood what must be done.

**xXx**

From deep within her mind Christine heard her Angel of Music plead with her, but she could no longer decipher his vague words. Nor could he seem to hear her desperate entreaties. Only when she clapped her hands over her ears to drown out the Phantom's jarring laughter, only then could she hear strains of her Angel's lilting voice.

Her journey to nowhere in this maze of darkness had been endless, and she was fast losing all hope that Erik would find her. Time had lost all order, the seconds, the minutes, the hours frozen into one horrific dark enchantment where she alone moved through a land of nothingness.

She turned a corner and came face to face with yet another distorted image of herself. Her heart leapt with fear as she backed away from the slate pillar.

_You cannot escape me again. Your chains are mine!_

The voice that bellowed inside her head drowned out the faint notes of her Angel's sweet music. She clapped her hands over her ears, but this time her feeble defense offered no reprieve. The laughter mocked her, tightening links like iron around her mind.

Lifting her eyes as if compelled, fearful she would see his cloaked form this time and his eyes burning yellow deep within the black void of his hood, she stared at the mirror-like slate, and inhaled a startled gasp.

A long crack of light shimmered at the edge of the rock.

Christine rushed forward and pressed her fingers into the crevice, working to pry it apart, until her fingers stung and the sharp rock scraped the skin in her futile efforts. Thwarted, she frantically pounded against the cold slate with her palms, then her fists until they throbbed with fire.

A droplet of something hot and wet struck her face and she froze, stunned. She placed a hand to her cheek. Three times, she had wept in lonely despair since she'd found herself in this foul realm of terror, but now her eyes were dry. Her fingertips grazed moisture that stung the chafed pads of her skin. She looked up into the dark firmament of vacant black. No rain fell. She touched her burning fingers to her tongue and tasted salt. Tears?

In confusion, Christine lowered her gaze. A strange white mist drifted in, low to the ground, wafting about her feet.

"Dear God, what is happening?" she breathed – and was startled she could again hear her voice.

Another drop struck her cheek as she stood immobile. The moist trail made a path down to her jaw, and her mind quieted.

These tears were not her own.

_Erik_.

She forced herself to look at her misshapen reflection, longing to see him approach from within the polished stone. Memory of another night she'd stood before a mirror and seen his image there hit her with the swiftness of a sudden wind.

Two voices had seeped inside her mind that night. Her angel's melodic tenor with which she'd become so intimate from her dreams and lessons. But a vague whisper had hidden behind his tender persuasions for her to come forward. An indistinct shape in the shadows ...

_Enter at last, Master._

Her lips parted in stunned realization as she continued to stare at her distorted image. At the time she'd been so mesmerized to finally see her Angel that she paid no heed to the other voice. Truth dawned as light forced its way through the dark cracks of forgotten memories and shimmered into her thoughts.

She had invited the Phantom to dwell inside her mind, as well as her Angel!

In a similar way that the dark spirit once plagued her Angel, influencing him, the Phantom whispered into her thoughts and eventually made Christine dread what she'd always dreamed of – a life with Erik. Erik had not placed the taunting spirit inside her mind through his magic. She, herself, had given him permission to enter when she thought she was allowing entrance to her Angel alone!

Exhaling a swift breath, Christine closed her eyes. How this affected the present, she wasn't sure. But her soul calmed, and a wisp of courage unfurled within her spirit that before had been absent. Her mind stilled and she concentrated solely on Erik.

_My Angel, if you can hear me tell me what I must do to leave this darkness._

Several heartbeats of strained silence – and then his voice came, a fine gossamer thread that wound gently around her thoughts and her heart, binding her to him with quiet persistence.

_Reach for the light, Christine. _His voice soothed yet commanded. _Reach for the light, my Angel …_

The light. She had forgotten about the Light. Could the key to her freedom be so simple? She looked toward the pillar of slate. She had tried and tried to pry the stone apart and failed, tearing her skin instead.

Yet the occasions that she disobeyed her teacher were rare and despite knowing it was useless, she reached out toward the thin, bright fissure. Instantly a gray wraith dove into view in front of the pillar, blocking her attempt. With a startled cry, Christine quickly withdrew her hand. Another wraith rushed down from above, crossing the path of the other, as they both shot up at an angle and hissed at her.

_I cannot_ ... She backed away several steps.

_You must. It is the only way._

_I have not your courage, my Angel. _This time the tears that rolled down her cheeks were her own. _I'm frightened. There's so much darkness here …_

_Christine, there's no other way but to do as I have said. You have more courage than you realize. Follow the light. It will lead you back to me._

She squeezed her eyes shut, terrified at the prospect of what else she might encounter if she followed his gentle directive. So far, the wraiths had not harmed her, except to frighten her almost witless. Yet she felt certain the Phantom had other devices to keep her in chains to him.

_You are a Queen. Draw upon all you have learned ... he has no power over you except that which you give him._

Christine inhaled a deep breath and held it as a new voice filled her mind, a quiet voice she'd not heard since the day she'd been reunited with Erik at the cemetery. Like her Angel's voice, this one that stemmed from a higher source encouraged her willing submission.

Unexpectedly, a flash of righteous anger blazed a trail through her heart. It reinforced the shaky foundation of her courage, and she wondered if Erik had somehow put it there, or if she experienced the culmination of what they both felt.

How dare the Phantom chase them down and take her prisoner! How dare he keep her and her Angel apart once again!

"I want nothing to do with you!" Her shout sounded eerily loud in the cavernous realm of unending shadow and black mirrors. "Do you hear me, Phantom? I never did. In my ignorance, I once gave you leave to enter. Now I'm telling you to depart from me! You have no right to me – _I don't belong to you, but to one greater than you could ever dream to be!_"

A chill wind gusted from the north, whipping Christine's hair into a wild frenzy and blowing her skirts flat against her. The wraiths screeched and dove at her again, but she clenched her fists at her side and stood her ground this time. She now remembered to whom she belonged. She was a daughter of the Light, and destined to be Erik's Queen, forever united with her Angel of Music. That knowledge emboldened her further. After all they had overcome to be together, the Phantom would not steal their dreams now!

She walked toward the light in the cleft, paying no attention to the wraiths. They continued darting about her, hissing and screeching, but they did not touch her. And she realized they truly were powerless to do her bodily harm.

Before her wondering eyes, the crack of light thickened, etching four long lines of glowing white on the black slate to form what looked like the outline of a door. Awed, she slowly put her hand out as the light continued to expand inward, increasing, until the pillar no longer stood solid, but radiated with a brilliant rectangle of vast brightness. The rays shimmered upon her face.

_Follow the light, Christine ..._

Erik's faraway voice dispelled any lingering doubt. She took a steadying breath then moved through the entrance of blazing luminescence.

Warmth bathed her chilled soul. The blackness receded, whirling away from her, and she shut her sensitive eyes, so long in darkness, to the blinding glare that shone like a great sun ahead. Still she walked on, guided by her Angel's voice alone, trusting him to lead her. His voice grew stronger, his song urging her forward – until suddenly she felt a strong hand grasp her arm and pull her as though over a precipice. She painfully gulped in a huge gasp of air, as if struggling for a first breath after almost being suffocated.

"Christine, my love?" The rich sweetness of his audible voice poured into the emptiness of her tormented soul, and her eyes fluttered open.

Breathing fast, she looked up into his lean face, hungry for the sight of him, hardly daring to believe that her beloved again held her close in his arms. Wearily she smiled and lifted her fingers to the moisture on his cheek, noting how his smoky green eyes glistened with fierce adoration behind the mask, matching what Christine was certain he must see in her own eyes.

"Erik, my Angel."

As she pressed her palm tenderly against his jaw with her faint whisper, he bowed his head against her own and shamelessly wept.

**xXx**


	18. Solemn Vow

**Chapter XVIII**

**xXx**

**.**

The chill wind stirred the branches high above, rustling them like the clicks of skeletal fingers and adding to Celeste's panic. Shadows in the night seemed darker with the pale moon buried so deeply within the clouds. Still, she felt as if hidden eyes seared into her flesh.

With her arms wrapped around her stomach, she worked to still her faltering breaths. She held in a burning lungful of air, not daring to make a sound. The iron taste welling inside her mouth made her feel as if she might retch, and she stopped to spit blood onto the ground, then darted a quick look over her shoulder, afraid _he_ might have come to and heard her. And then what might happen?

Her fear burned pungent, an acrid stench in the air. Her thin body trembling, Celeste ran to find sanctuary within the stable, as safe as she could be within its pitch-black confines. She fell to her knees, relying solely upon touch to locate the mound of recently disturbed dirt. Her fingers clawed at the dry soil until they ran across the smooth feel of satin. She uprooted Erik's money pouch from the hole in which she'd buried it. Holding the cool fabric to her skin above her torn nightdress, she sat back on her legs and closed her eyes. Tears that had gathered there slipped down her cheeks.

Ever since Papa died upon reaching Rouen, darkness invaded her world. Her aunt despised her, using her as a personal slave, and the fat lecher who lived with her also expected Celeste to fulfill his wishes for food, drink or whatever else he was too lazy to get for himself. But this night, when she had awakened from a nightmare to find him lurking by her cot, his demands horrified her. Shocked, she had done her best to fight him off, but he'd been too strong.

Nausea boiled to the top of her throat as the memory of minutes ago slashed through her mind. Revolted, she lurched over, her stomach releasing the scant contents of the supper she'd been allowed. Shaky, she wiped the back of her mouth with one hand, using the other planted to the ground to help her straighten. Grim resolve hardened her heart, maturing her beyond her thirteen years while ruthless fear weakened her limbs, threatening to reduce her to little more than a whimpering babe.

Before he was done, she had struck him with his pewter tankard she'd grabbed from the table by her cot – hard enough for his head to bleed and for him to lose awareness, falling like a leaden weight onto her chest. With difficulty she pushed him off her, hoping she had killed the filthy pig, and staggered from the cottage as fast as she was able. Her aunt could wake at any time from her drunken stupor, as soon as the latest round of ale wore off, and then there would be no escape. Celeste must flee from this prison while she still had strength and courage to do so.

The lumps within the pouch were few, the ring buried far beneath. Not enough gold coins remained to secure passage on a ship. Dishonest men asked for more than the horse and wagon had been worth, and her aunt sold both after Papa's death. When other coins mysteriously disappeared, Celeste moved the bag from inside the straw tick upon which she slept and buried them in the stable, certain her cousin Lon had stolen them. He was often absent as he was tonight and she assumed he gambled the coins away, though she couldn't prove it, nor did she wish her aunt to know of the bag's existence and what it contained.

If she could find work as a milkmaid, she could hoard her earnings with the remaining gold coins and rely solely on her masters' allotment of food and lodgings to survive. Anything to leave this wretched country. She could go to England or America. She'd heard in passing that the servants were treated fairly at the manor house on the opposite side of the city. Surely no one would think to look for her there.

Celeste forced herself to stand, her body screaming with the movement. Pain ground deep inside her belly and she stifled an involuntary cry with her fist at the stickiness of blood she felt between her trembling thighs. Tears of hate and fear dropped heedless down her cheeks as she crept toward the stable door and guardedly opened it, her flesh weak but her resolve strong.

Never again would a man touch her; she would kill any who tried.

**xXx**

"I must take my latest work to the seamstress. Are you certain you will be all right while I am gone, chère?" Mère hesitated near Meg's bed, as if undecided.

Meg nodded without glancing up from writing her letter to Christine. The uneasiness that churned within, since she first heard the whisper days ago, only increased this morning when Mère walked into the room with the startling announcement, "It is finished."

"What is finished?" Meg had asked.

"The battle, Meg. One of many. We will be called upon again, to do what we must, but for now, it is over."

To disagree was not Meg's place, but remaining silent had been difficult. She only sensed those things pertaining to events whose history she had yet to learn, but her mother had experienced and recognized their truth for years. So she supposed she should trust her judgment ...

"Meg? Something troubles you." It was not a question.

Meg set down her quill pen and looked up. Her mother had covered her hair with a simple woolen scarf and now wrapped it around her throat in preparation for venturing outdoors. Spring crouched on the horizon, yet chill winds blew and rain spattered the panes. Beneath the woolen outer wrapping, Meg noted her mother's plain black dress, devoid of any of the fancy trimmings of which her mother was so fond.

Recently, Mère had secreted her fine cloak and silk dresses into a wardrobe. Wearing more than simple weave invited speculation from the Commune as belonging to a class of the nobility. With such accusations, harassment often came toward those unfortunates who were suspected, as Mère herself had witnessed. Both men and women were cornered on the streets by angry Marxist youths eager for the scent of blood, and she'd told Meg she would rather dress as a peasant than endure the possibility of dirt clods or rocks thrown at her, as had been the fate of one poor soul.

"Meg? You hesitate. What causes you such distress?"

Knowing she must speak, Meg hoped her mother wouldn't consider her impertinent. She'd never once crossed her but felt compelled to say now what she'd not divulged this morning. First, however, she must seek answers. She wanted, _needed_ to understand.

"How were you aware the battle was over, Mère, or that it had even begun? In what manner did you receive this knowledge?"

"A voice told me, in the night."

Meg's eyes widened. "The same whisper I heard also spoke to you?"

"Non. I sensed it. Here," she pressed her palm to her bosom, "Within my spirit. The message was not audible but rather a deep-seated knowledge of truth."

Trying to sort her thoughts, Meg stroked the frayed edges of the crimson and emerald threads intertwined in her coverlet. "Are you certain this voice isn't the same one you heard while living at the opera house? Perhaps its source is from the Phantom and was sent only to deceive and bind us in chains to him once again?"

"Non, it is not the same. The other voice inspired obeisant fear and chilled the blood. This voice was ... inspiring. Calm." She shook her head with slight frustration. "I cannot explain, but peace dwelt within its message. This voice has come to me once before. On the night of the King's most recent escape. When we made plans, it told me in what area you would find them."

Taken back to that morning, Meg grimly looked at the three candles flickering nearby. "The face of evil wears many masks."

"What did you say?"

"What?" Shocked by the curt query, Meg blinked and lifted her gaze, barely aware she'd spoken.

Her mother sank to the edge of the bed, her eyes shrewd. "What you spoke about evil wearing many masks. Why did you say that?"

"I, I don't know." Meg drew her brows together. The words slipped out of their own volition. She'd given them no prior place in her mind. "But is it not true? That evil wears different masks, some so deceptive they trick the unwary? Even the strong?"

Her mother expelled a heavy sigh. "Oui. It is so. But the voice I heard was not evil. I am sure of this."

Meg pushed her point further. "You were deceived by Darkness for years. You lived within a masquerade. How then can you be sure this voice which now leads you is to be trusted? The voice I heard was not. It inspired the fear of which you spoke. I ..." She kneaded the edge of the counterpane between her fingers then smoothed it over her lap. "I've struggled within my heart since my accident, I know. But I did petition the Light, as you persuaded me. Night and day I have interceded for Christine and the Maestro and have not forsaken my duty in serving them. If circumstances were truly as they appear, would I also not feel a measure of peace regarding their situation?"

Mère gave the slightest shake of her head as if she had no answer.

Meg reached out to grasp her mother's wrist, desperate to make her understand. "I realize I have much still to learn, but I feel you're wrong in this instance, Mère. Please believe me when I say all is not as it seems. Perhaps the darkness has retreated and what you sense is the transient peace that comes from that. Perhaps the voice you heard _is_ from the Light. It is true I found them in the area you told me to go only moments before the Vicomte would have. But now …" she took a breath. "Now I fear the darkness has only withdrawn for a short time, to regain force. Whatever battle they recently faced was minor in comparison to what's coming. And the oddest thing is ..." Drawing her brows together, she shook her head in baffled wonder. "I feel that the Vicomte plays only a small part in it or perhaps none at all, unlike I first thought. He's not the main threat. Other forces are at work against them, forces of which we are not even aware."

There. She had spoken the thoughts that plagued her all morning. She waited, carefully gauging her mother's reaction.

Her mother didn't appear upset, but her eyes clouded over with worry. "Ma chère, I do not doubt you. I have known for some years that you are gifted in ways I am not. The time has come for you to fulfill your calling, and one day, when I'm gone, you will replace me entirely."

Surprise eclipsed the pain of such a thought. She had expected a curt reprimand on the issue of disrespect, but instead her mother addressed her as an equal.

Emboldened, Meg decided to take their conversation a step further.

"Will you tell me about ... him?"

"The King?"

Meg pulled at her lower lip with her teeth. "No. _Him._"

"The Phantom."

At Meg's abrupt nod, her mother's expression grew more troubled. Mère stared off into space, seeming absorbed in another time, and at first Meg thought she would not respond.

"He wanted to be king," her mother said simply. "To rule over all of us. He desired absolute power. Music – the King – was merely the puppet he used to attain his desires."

"But who is _he_?"

Her mother's face blanched. "He is death ... the epitome of all that is evil."

Meg gave a brisk shake of her head. "Why then did you give your fealty to him as well as to the Maestro? How could you have claimed loyalty, when to serve the Phantom was clearly at cross-purposes?" She struggled to comprehend, loath to think of her mother as anything but faithful. "When you were a girl, I can understand you being deceived in to thinking the Phantom was the Maestro's guardian angel, since you said he protected him from the gypsy at the fair. But later, when you witnessed the havoc he created at the opera house –"

"By the time I understood just how dark the Phantom's motives were, we had all been deceived, and I was frightened. He did not simply protect the boy from the gypsy, Margarette, he killed the man, using the boy to do so. Music was a skinny child, underfed and weak, recently beaten. But he overtook the huge gypsy with the strength of ten men, strangling him with a rope. The cage was suddenly padlocked, the gypsy inside, no longer outside. I glanced away but for a moment, when suddenly Music magically stood outside the locked gate, and I ... I went to him."

Her low admission produced a din of shock throughout Meg. Her mother's features went slack, as if even today those long-ago events inspired fearful awe.

"I had just seen him murder a man with his bare hands and witnessed events which were then beyond my girlhood knowledge – but I moved toward him instead of running away. Something about him compelled me to draw closer ..." She shook her head as if to displace her thoughts. "One of the gypsies ran inside and cried, 'murder!' Music grabbed my arm and we raced through the back of the tent. Is it any wonder I mistook the Phantom for the boy's guardian, since he helped him escape, as did I? I thought that to serve him was to help the King!" Her hurried words sounded almost defensive, as if she had replayed the scenario countless times in her head.

Meg took in a slow breath to realize her mother battled with guilt, and she felt uncomfortable with the knowledge. Carefully she sidestepped the issue. "So Joseph Buquet wasn't the first man the Phantom killed?"

Her mother collected herself, her smile grim. "Nor was he the last."

"Señor Piangi." Meg thought a moment. "Were there others?"

"I don't know."

"Did you never think the Phantom might use the Maestro to kill you, should you betray his orders?"

"Not at first, no. When the Vicomte spoke to me on the night of the Bal Masque, and I then made a decision to serve the Light, I was uncertain what the Phantom might do to me. Yet I did not believe – and still do not believe – that the King would have had any part in my death."

Meg nodded slowly, wondering why she'd never been told any of this before. It also shocked her to learn that the Vicomte was responsible for helping her mother to renounce darkness. She pushed any thought of him aside. "One matter puzzles me still. Why did the Phantom choose a wretched waif, a boy, caged inside a traveling gypsy circus? Surely there were others more powerful to influence? Men of great station and worth who could have better suited the Phantom's purposes?"

"I cannot answer for certain what I myself do not understand, but there has always been something special about the Maestro. His voice is a masterpiece of rare beauty that strikes the heartstrings of all who listen. His compositions are filled with fire and passion, and he can play any instrument with ease, be it violin or organ, though he's never once had a lesson ... but there's more. It's as if ..." She hesitated, and her expression became fixed. "As if he were chosen."

"Chosen?"

"To accomplish some greater purpose."

"What purpose?"

Mère shook her head. "I don't know, chère. But in serving him, we are part of that plan. Now do you begin to understand why our petitions are so important?"

"Yes." Meg's answer came steady. "And if you are correct in your assessments, then I fear the upcoming battle will be fiercer than either of us could imagine. The Phantom will not easily relinquish his hold over them. You taught me that the powers of darkness never surrender. And there are others ... others besides the Phantom who mean them harm."

The apprehensive look in her mother's eyes mirrored the words Meg no longer needed to voice.

Christine and her Angel remained in grave danger.

**xXx**

Christine woke, her eyes focusing on a patch of blue sky through the canopy of trees. For an instant, she remembered being a prisoner to Darkness, and her heart gave a painful thump. Fear washed back into her soul, attempting to submerge her in a black pool of despair. She struggled to secure a calming breath, forcing herself to recall her exodus from the Phantom's clutches ... remembering Erik's tearstained face and the torment in his eyes when she opened her own - and then the disbelieving joy that lit up his features. She had drawn on what little of her strength remained to reach up to him, to touch his cheek, needing to know he was truly with her. And he had wept tears of release and held her as if he would never let her go.

That had been four days ago. Since then, at Erik's firm command, Christine rested to regain her strength. Every time she awakened to see light overhead, gratitude filled her to realize she no longer remained enslaved by the dark spell that had seized her. And if she ever wondered if it were all some macabre dream of her dark imaginings, she had only to look at her hands.

She lifted them to her gaze now. Angry red abrasions marred her fingertips where she'd scraped at jagged rock. Thin scabbed-over lines of purple raced across the bottoms of her palms where she'd pounded against it. All were vivid reminders that what she endured in the realm of darkness had been chillingly real. And if it made no sense that she bore physical wounds from a spiritual battle, she didn't pause to question. So much that had happened was beyond her extent of understanding, beyond all reasoning. To be back with her Angel, that was all that mattered. Once she'd told him of her experience, while he held her, safe in the haven of his arms, Erik gently admonished her to forget her ordeal, and Christine sought to do just that.

Deeply she inhaled of the cool morning air – and held it mid-breath. Puzzlement nudged her mind at the familiarity of the startling fragrance and its presence in this overgrown forest. She turned her head to the side and gasped.

A solitary red rose lay on the ground beside her. A thin black ribbon curled around the stem.

She pushed herself up to sit. In delighted wonder, she took the flower into her hand. A single rose, the symbol for a secret tryst. Her heart leapt in curious anticipation of what Erik had planned. The perfect petals were a glorious red, not fully opened, and all thorns were stripped from the stem. Christine brought the blossom to her face, inhaling its sweet perfume. She closed her eyes, brushing the velvety petals against her lips, reminded of her Angel's kiss. When she opened her eyes and glanced to her left, hoping to spot him, they widened even further.

A trail of white rose petals led along the grass and circled around the trees.

Smiling in delight, as eager as a curious child on a hunt for treasure, she moved up from the mossy ground and followed them, unafraid. She knew that once she came to the end of the delicate trail she would find her Angel. The sweet breeze caressed her hair and kissed her face. The heady fragrance of roses filled her senses. Such joy to be alive, to be with her love, lifted her heart. Barely restrained excitement ordered her steps, so that she wanted to run ahead or skip like a girl, and she did quicken her pace, eager to see him.

She moved around the bend of trees. The rose petal trail led into a thicker stand of trees, where wild bushes grew all around. As she walked into the peaceful green haven, she saw the petals led even further, bringing her deeper into the forest, to a copse of flowering trees. She continued forward, looking in awe all around her as she walked. Here flowers of many varieties budded and blossomed among the braches, in the bushes, upon the ground. She felt as if she'd entered an enchanted garden, but the moment she reached its center, she halted, gasping in stunned delight.

Fragile roses of ruby and white adorned the shady alcove. Faint sunbeams glimmered through cracks in the walls of bushes, which converged to form a sheltered roof, and cast the area in a muted white glow. Midpoint, a low flat rock served as a table, but it was what sat on the table that made Christine's eyes widen even more. A wealth of fruit she would have thought out of season adorned the entire surface. Golden apples and ripened delicacies she didn't recognize, of red and green, all contributed to the bounty of this little piece of Eden.

Before he spoke, before he made a whisper of sound, she sensed him in her spirit and knew he was with her. Her body attuned to his presence, her soul lifted, buoyant, while the unsung melody of the phoenix winged through her heart. He moved in close behind her, taking gentle hold of her arms.

"Erik," she breathed, closing her eyes and laying her head back against his strong shoulder. For a long time they stood, tranquil and still, at peace in their world and with one another.

"You are pleased?" he asked softly.

"'Pleased' seems such an inadequate word to describe this moment. This is wondrous."

"You are worthy, my Angel, of all this and more. You do know what day this is?"

She thought a moment and grew stunned he should remember when she had forgotten.

"The anniversary of my birth." She was now seventeen. She turned to face him. "But how did you find this place?"

"I discovered it, and all that is within it," his hand swept toward the fruit and flowers, "on the afternoon you were released from the dark spell."

A look of remembered anguish crossed his face, and she smiled, hoping to dispel any inkling of anxiety he might still foster regarding her travail. She was here only because his fierce love had reclaimed her and brought her back to him. He may be a mortal man, but he was truly her Angel.

"And the rose?" She glanced down and brought the one she held up to touch her lips. "Surely such a lovely cultured flower comes from somewhere other than this wild forest." The one she held didn't resemble the blossoms around her.

"Ah, Mon Ange, would you truly take all the mystery away?" he teased, an enigmatic tilt to his mouth. His eyes glimmered with secrets. "All you need to know is that it is for you, I think of it as you. You are my rose ..." His fingertips lifted to brush her cheek, sending delightful tremors down to her spine. "... All that is pure, beautiful, delicate, fragrant. I love you, Christine."

If her heart knew greater joy it would surely burst into beams of light and dissolve within the white radiance surrounding them. She would never tire of hearing those words from his lips.

"Come." Dropping his hand to the small of her back, he escorted her to the table. "You must eat. Tomorrow we resume our journey. I feel you are strong enough to travel, and soon we must cross the mountains. Señora Alvero said they could be perilous."

As Christine drew close to the rock table her eyes widened. What looked and smelled like roasted rabbit sat near the fruit. She looked at him. "How ...?"

He chuckled. "I do know how to lay traps with which to hunt." His eyes lost some of their mirthful sparkle.

Fearing that the past had risen to persecute him again, she changed the topic. "I never once doubted in your ability to take care of me, Erik. At the cottage, I am the one who convinced you to take me with you, remember?"

At her playful smile, he laughed. "How could I forget? It is perhaps the wisest decision I made since we started this journey."

They dined, they conversed, they adored. Across the table, he held her hand in his throughout their meal, and often they stared into one another's eyes.

"I have no idea how we shall manage it, Christine, but I vow to you, this day, that we will find a way to fulfill every one of our dreams. Truly, as man and wife. Once we leave France it should be safe to travel into a village. We will find a priest to marry us there."

Her heart sang with her Angel's words, with the first sign of optimism she had witnessed in him in such a long time. Erik rose from the ground, bringing her up with him, and pulled her close, resting his hands at her waist. "Together, we are strong, Christine. You were right in saying so. Together, we shall endure."

"Not only shall we endure, my Angel. We shall triumph!"

With a hopeful smile, he cradled her face in his hands as though it were crafted of the finest porcelain. His lips touched hers in a kiss, gentle but firm – and different from any they'd yet shared. This kiss was not propelled by eager discovery, as she'd given him during their reunion at the cemetery and later, at the stable. Nor was it driven by the burning passion with which he had so irrevocably bound her to him, his willing pupil, wrapping her within silken flames of his seducing fire at both campsites.

This kiss promised her that all he vowed would come to pass.

**xXx**


	19. In Pursuit

**Chapter XIX**

**xXx**

**.**

Lucio and Mario Alvero sat at their mother's table, eating the meal she'd set before them as if they were ravening wolves and not grown men. Ever since they entered her cottage, they had lamented their wasted trip into the nearest town for work. The grape harvest had not been good. Lack of rain had withered the fruit the previous year, and both men had many mouths to feed.

"If it were not for Anna and the children, I would again be a tracker," Mario said, tearing into the roasted bread.

"We will head for Mont de Marsan tomorrow. Perhaps we will have better luck there." The city was over a day's journey, but Lucio knew of no better choice.

Their mama broke into the men's hushed conversation. She apologized for not having the goat's milk cheese Lucio favored, and his ears perked up at her next words.

"What did you say, Mama?"

She turned from dishing out a second helping of thick cream soup from a pot atop the fire. "I gave much of what I had to two travelers who passed through here. Such a lovely pair they were, so full of music. They sang with the voice of angels." A sad sort of wistfulness crossed her face.

"Who was this pair?" Lucio asked, straightening in his chair, curious by her strange behavior.

"I only know them by their Christian names."

"Mama!" Mario admonished.

"Si, si, I know you will tell me I acted foolish, but I felt I must help them." She patted her heart. "In here, something urged me I must do this thing. She knew no Spanish, so I could not speak with her. But the man understood our language, and I spoke with him as much as he would allow. He was very quiet and withdrawn."

Lucio and Mario shared a look. Mario glanced at his mother. "A man and woman came here?"

"Si." She set the thick white soup in front of Lucio.

"Where were they from?"

"He did not say." She grew agitated, as if their questions disturbed her.

"Mama," Lucio chided, "what are you not telling us?"

She smoothed her hands down her apron. "At first I did not trust him; he wore a mask like a bandit. But I soon knew him to be a good man," she hastily assured when Mario's spoon fell into his bowl with a splash and he stared up at her with open mouth. "He wished only to protect the woman … I do not like that look in your eyes."

"He wore a mask?" Lucio queried, his manner intense as he ignored her last words.

"Si." She acted nervous, as if she wished she hadn't spoken. "But he was a good man. Kind to the woman and to me ..."

Excitement stirred within Lucio, drowning out his mother's explanations. While in town, he and Mario observed a proclamation nailed to a pole that described a killer wanted in Paris, one who wore a mask. The notice further stated that a woman accompanied the man, though no crimes had been listed with regard to her.

As Lucio stared into his brother's shrewd eyes, he could see Mario shared in the thought of his possible scheme. A Vicomte had issued the proclamation. If he was so desperate as to send the edict to a town so great a distance from Paris, he was certain to be wealthy and offer a handsome reward to those who captured the criminal.

Darkness whispered to Lucio's mind, bypassing his need to provide for his family and fueling his avarice with all that it promised. "How many days ago did they leave?"

His mama furrowed her brow in confusion. "Five, I think. Why? What does it matter when they left?"

"Five?" The fugitives had a good head start. Lucio looked to Mario for support.

Mario nodded, his expression eager. Lucio leaned over to grab his rifle from where it sat propped against the wall. Mario jumped to his feet, his chair skidding back, and strapped on his pistols. Lucio had never taken off his gunbelt.

"Where are you two going?" their mama cried as the brothers made a hasty path for the door.

"To make us rich, Mama," Lucio called back. "And to capture a masked man!"

**xXx**

After an arduous journey during which both patience and fortitude endured strong testing, the party of three arrived in Rouen, at the palatial estate of the Dowager Comtesse de Chagny. Two days of continuous travel had wearied Raoul's aunt and mother, and both women retired to their rooms upon arrival.

The verdant surroundings promised peace, but Raoul's mind knew only turmoil. Anxiety waged war within his soul, fighting for top position among despair and heartbreak, and yes, even resentment at being here when he wished to be elsewhere, on his way to Spain. The last brought with it guilt, for his father lay deathly ill through no one's fault but Raoul's own reckless words. And so he played the dutiful son, burying his frustrations and rising to what was expected of him, seeing to it that both women were well looked after.

Over the following days, Raoul toured various areas of the huge estate to acquaint himself with its workings. A fifteenth century edifice set in a lush valley, _Le Manoir de Blanc La Rose, _also called Whiterose, with its thick walls and twin towers, gleamed like a pearl in a king's crown. To the west and seen from his bedchamber window, a tranquil pond provided a home to ducks and geese. Beyond the estate, a small vineyard grew, and upon sampling the sweet-bodied wine his first night at dinner, Raoul approved the vintage immensely.

Protective walls of the same white stone as the manor surrounded the estate, and within those walls five acres of gardens perfumed the air with all manner of appealing scents. The well-kept grounds and house servants' impeccable conduct testified that here at Whiterose all flowed with harmony and ease.

Once more, Raoul stood on the outside entrance steps and admired his aunt's ancestral home. He usually gave little regard to his surroundings, but the unique beauty of Whiterose appealed to him. Above the wide arched doors, a trailing vine of roses had been carved into stone, and bushes abloom with white roses hugged all sides of the manor. On the windows, themselves, a delicate fretwork of roses laced the panes without obscuring the view from inside.

His aunt once mentioned the estate had been in her family for generations, and she'd legally resumed control after her husband died. The Count had married her for her wealth, she for a title, a mutual agreement both families instigated. Arranged marriages were not uncommon, especially among those of his station, and Raoul's own mother had spoken to his father in past months about a woman for Raoul to marry, a Lady Levitt, the daughter of a baron. Spurred by the desire to join their lands, his parents tried to convince Raoul to marry the woman, but he had no interest in anyone but Christine.

Hearing a sound, he turned toward the outbuildings on the fringes of the forest. At sight of a young man riding a dusty horse through the open gates of the estate and up the drive, Raoul hurried down the steps to greet him.

"I have a letter for the Vicomte de Chagny," the boy said, reining his horse to an abrupt stop.

"I am the Vicomte." Raoul practically seized the offered envelope from the boy's hand, barely having the presence of mind to pay the lad five francs for his trouble.

The young messenger pocketed the coin. "Do you mind if I rest and water my horse, monsieur?"

Raoul gave a distracted nod, his gaze on the missive in his hands. "The stable boy will provide anything you need."

The messenger tipped his hat and urged his horse in the direction of the building. Raoul broke the wax seal and tore into the envelope, hopeful for a positive answer. Six days he had awaited word from an old school acquaintance's uncle, a former detective.

_My dear Lord de Chagny,  
I received your letter in regard to your quandary involving the Opera Ghost. While I must say I am intrigued by your offer to embark on this quest, after having heard much ado regarding the furor in Paris on the opening night of Don Juan Triumphant, such a prospect is sadly beyond my ability at this time, and I must decline due to health matters ..._

The note went further to say that should he recover soon, he would reconsider, but Raoul shoved the missive back into its envelope. He could not afford the wait. Christine could not afford the delay.

Raoul tightened his lips together as he pondered this latest predicament. His mother was safe at Whiterose. She had his aunt for company, and his aunt told him the estate manager had proven his merit and remained a trusted friend. Husky in build, he appeared well able to protect the women should the need arise, though from what Raoul witnessed of the estate, such a need seemed remote.

He strode toward the stables. A ride on Mephisto would help clear his mind so that he might decide what course to take.

A sharp scream from within the stable momentarily froze his steps. With a muffled curse, he ran for the door and swung it open.

In the far corner, the messenger wrestled with the stable boy. For an instant Raoul looked on, baffled. The boy stood a good two hands shorter, but held his own well.

"Give me what you took from me!" the messenger grunted.

"I took nothing!" The lad struggled, his cap flying off as the messenger caught and wrenched his arm behind his back. The boy cried out in pain.

"Cease this behavior at once!" Raoul stepped forward, startling them.

The boy took advantage of the element of surprise to stomp on the messenger's instep, and the man howled. The boy broke loose and spun to face Raoul who blocked his exit.

"What is the meaning of ..." Raoul's eyes widened as he caught sight of a crystal ring suspended from a leather thong around the child's neck. Noting the direction of his stare, the boy looked down then hastily tucked it back inside his shirt. Scarlet flushed his thin face.

"Where did you get that?" Raoul demanded.

"It's mine!" the scamp insisted. "It was given to me."

"You lie."

"The boy's a thief," the messenger broke in. "He stole my purse of coins three days' past, in town."

The boy narrowed his eyes at them in warning, but sharp disbelief and rising fury impelled Raoul forward for a closer look at the ring.

"Stay away!" The boy backed up. Swift as lightning, he bent and extracted a small dagger from inside his boot, waving the blade, his arm outstretched. Prepared to do battle, he backed away and around to the open stable door in a crouch. "If you come nearer, I'll slit your gullet, I will, so help me!"

Raoul halted his advance. Slight of build, the boy looked as skinny as a scarecrow, but fire shot from his green eyes, and Raoul knew a cornered animal was a dangerous one.

"Tell me where you got that ring," he insisted.

"A lady gave it to me."

"What lady?"

"I ..." Panic twisted the boy's thin face.

"_What lady?"_

Before Raoul could press further, the boy gave a mighty shove to a barrel, pushing it in Raoul's direction, then raced for the door. Just as Raoul made a grab for the imp, the empty barrel thumped Raoul hard in the legs, and he staggered, almost falling over the wooden cask.

"Blast!" he yelled. As quick as he could, he regained his equilibrium and darted after the thief.

**xXx**

A chill wind of incredible force blew against Erik and Christine as Orion struggled along the plain and toward a giant range of snow-topped, jagged mountain. The summit stood lost within the clouds. A thick curtain of darkness covered the earth though it was midday. If Erik had not felt the need for haste, urging him since daybreak, he would have delayed their journey.

He had lived beneath the opera house for twenty-two years, and on the rare occasions he did leave its protective walls, he'd done so when the skies were bleak or in the cloak of night. The darkness above bore scant similarity to any darkness related to the natural forces of weather he had encountered in Paris, and it possessed little resemblance to the malevolence of the Phantom's cloud.

Behind him, Christine tightened her arms around his waist, burying her face in his back. Stinging particles swept about them and whipped into their faces. Flew into their eyes. Blew into their mouths. Erik wished he could spare Christine the discomfort, but gratitude filled his heart to have her with him again. Recalling his recent separation from her, when she'd been trapped inside the Phantom's dark realm, Erik knew he would never forget the moment she suddenly gasped, fighting for breath, and the image of her eyelids fluttering, fighting a heavy weight, before they'd slowly lifted. He could still envision the love that smoothed the tautness from her features as she'd looked up at him.

And then, she had smiled.

And it was with that beautiful, tremulous smile and her faint words that had flowed into his besieged mind that Erik's heart was reborn.

He covered her hand with his in reassurance, though their existing situation promised little of which to be confident. She nestled closer, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist, seeming to find comfort. He wished he had more to offer her, but now a new obstacle had appeared. Quite literally, a mountain blocked their path.

Squinting through his mask, Erik eyed the formidable stretch of rock that loomed ahead. On the opposite side lay Spain and freedom, the advent of their new life together. Yet the climb appeared too steep, too treacherous, and while he might have attempted it alone, he would never do so with Christine, especially not after all she recently suffered. He saw no road or evidence someone once blazed a trail. Had he brought them this far only to reach a dead end? There must be a way to reach the other side! Somehow, he must find it.

The distant thumps of hoofbeats striking packed earth broke him from his scrutiny. Startled, he swung his head around to glance behind him.

From less than three hundred feet away, two riders on horseback approached at a full gallop. Their fixed manner negated mere happenstance. They seemed intent on reaching them. Erik heard Christine's harsh intake of breath as she also looked behind, and he spurred Orion into a run.

An outcropping of rocks towered to the far right. He veered for them. Another look behind told him their pursuers were closing in fast.

The sound of a gunshot startled him and his anger soared. After a second explosion, Erik heard the rush of a bullet whiz past his ear. Christine screamed. Fearful for her safety with the rocks so far away and their enemies so close, he reined in Orion and slid off the horse in one continuous move.

"Erik, what are you doing?" Christine cried.

"Take cover in the rocks – go now!" With a deft motion, he pulled his sword loose from its scabbard. It was him they wanted, not her.

"Erik! This is madness! What is a blade against bullets?"

"Go, Christine!" He slapped Orion on the rump, and the horse took off with a sudden start.

Whirling, Erik raised his sword high. With little thought except to lead the men away from Christine, he issued a bloodcurdling cry and raced toward their pursuers. He wove back and forth as he ran, making himself a difficult target. While on horseback they would find it impossible to get a bead on him. At best, they would think him a lunatic and retreat. At worst, they would persist with their hunt, but would find him a formidable adversary. No matter the amount of firearms they possessed, soon their ammunition must run out, and they would need to reload.

And then, Erik would have the advantage.

**xXx**

Christine gripped Orion's mane as the horse raced for the rocks. Her heart beat painfully in her throat while frightened tears blurred her vision. Panicked, she sought deep within her spirit for the source of all Light, her silent pleas brimming out of fear of losing the one she loved most in the world. After they'd come so far, to approach the door of Spain and now be trapped against a prison of rock. After all they'd endured, this could not be the end!

Once sequestered behind a rock of gray slate, Christine squinted against the wind that wildly blew her hair into her face and watched with awed terror. Erik ran like a madman, racing in a jagged line as bullets flew past him. He carried his sword at a horizontal angle as he ran. When the horsemen were almost on top of him, he raised his blade high ready to swing.

"No," Christine breathed the word, clutching the cross Meg gave her. "No, Erik."

By the straight course he now ran, he either decided they had no ammunition left, or the bloodlust for battle had overpowered him. She feared the latter. If he were to kill these men and be caught, his crime would be added to his past murders at the opera house, despite that he acted in defense. Already a condemned man, he would be granted no mercy of a trial, fair or otherwise. And if their pursuers still carried ammunition in their guns, he no longer remained a difficult target. That was her greatest fear.

She could not lose him!

"Great Father of Lights, in whom there is no shadow," she breathed, the ridges of the cross biting into her flesh as she gripped it tightly, "I call upon you now. Help Erik, I beg of you! Show us a way of escape." A tear rolled down each cheek as she squeezed her eyes shut, unable to watch, desperately desiring what cold logic argued could never occur. They were on horseback; he was on foot. They had guns; he had nothing but his anger, and his sword ...

The wind increased in volume and changed course, blowing her hair away from her face. Shocked, Christine opened teary eyes. Her mouth fell open.

A mighty current of air, seen by the naked eye, swirled in a rapid circle between Erik and his pursuers. Flashes of white light sparked from within the maelstrom that towered two stories high.

Erik backed away, stumbled, fell. On the other side of the windstorm, the horses reared. One threw its rider to the ground, and raced off in the opposite direction. The other man worked to regain control of his beast. Casting aside her shock, Christine saw her chance and took it.

"Go, Orion!" She dug her heels into the stallion's flanks and clutched the reins. "Erik!" she yelled above the roaring wind, "Erik!"

After watching the other horses recoil from the storm, Christine worried she lacked the necessary expertise in the saddle to control Orion should he panic too. She relied on what little horsemanship she knew from her three months with Raoul and, grabbing onto her last snippet of courage, battled all fears that pounded against her. Riding the huge stallion at a mad gallop toward the whirling funnel, she again screamed out Erik's name.

**xXx**


	20. Mysterious Ally

**Chapter XX**

**xXx**

**.**

Celeste remained in shadow, sitting perched on her heels at the outskirts of the pond, ready to take off like the wind if need be. She tried to resist the fear that sought to strangle her and wished she could still her raspy breathing, a dead giveaway to her location.

Clapping a hand over her mouth, attempting to blend into the scenery, she held onto the trunk of one of many tall trees surrounding the area and looked back the way she'd come.

How could she have been so stupid? Days ago, long before she located a job at the manor, she'd felt the strong urge to remove the token from within the money pouch she'd hidden beneath a loose floor plank. Maybe it hadn't given her the protection she sought, but she felt an uneasy fascination for the strange crystal ring, its facets dim and no longer blinding to her eyes. Nor had it burned her hand. She felt it had … drawn her. As though a voice inside her head whispered to put it on. She'd found a piece of worn leather cording and hung the ring around her neck beneath her shirt. But those men had seen and now knew of her treasure. Worse, the nobleman seemed to recognize it. Surely he would now contact the gendarmes, who then would insist upon her identity and find her aunt.

She shivered as another link of fear chained around her mind. It would almost be better to pretend idiocy and be thrown into prison than be forced to tell all, though Celeste cringed from the thought of either punishment. And what if that lecher who attacked her had died? If she killed him, she could be executed.

She must leave Whiterose, leave Rouen – neither place held safety any longer. Closing her eyes, she bowed her forehead to the rough bark of a tree.

"Caught you!" A man's triumphant words shattered her peace at the same time a strong hand grabbed the back of her collar and hoisted her to her feet. In panicked defense, she reached for her filched dagger and with one swift motion sliced his hand.

"Agh! You damned little wretch!" The nobleman released her, but in one skillful move, he knocked the knife from her fist and grabbed her arm with his other hand before she could escape.

"Let me go!" she yelled. "Don't touch me!"

"Not until you answer my questions." The man's angry eyes bored into hers. "Where did you get that ring?"

"I-I told you. Someone gave it to me."

"Who?"

"My aunt."

"In the stable you said it was a lady."

"My aunt was a lady."

He shot a scornful look at her ratty top and woolen knickers. Dirty hanks of shorn hair lay in ragged clumps over her head and her feet and calves were dirty and bare.

"She was poor," Celeste added another layer to her lie. "Her husband died from consumption, and she lost everything because of his debts."

"Very well. Let us go and speak with her." He pulled her along.

"She doesn't live in town," Celeste said quickly. "She's dead."

"How opportune for you," he sneered. "Pardon me if I disbelieve your story." He shifted her so that her back slammed against his chest. His other arm shot like a band of steel around her middle, preventing her escape, and he forced her to walk.

"Where are you taking me?"

"To the only place for a boy who relies on deceit and thievery. To the gendarmes."

"Wait!" Celeste dug her heels into the moist earth. "If I promise to tell you where I got the ring, will you let me go?"

"I make no promises to thieves." He tried to push her along but she raked her jagged fingernails along his arm, struggling. She clawed at the hand she'd cut. With a rough curse of pain he loosened his hold. She twisted around and broke free. He darted a look to her neck.

"Give me that ring!"

She clapped her hand over it, realizing it had again flown loose from within her blouse.

"Is it yours?" she asked, taking a step back.

"That's not your concern."

She didn't run. As close as he stood, he would catch her. She took her first good look at her captor and knew he must be the mistress's nephew, recently arrived at Whiterose. The Vicomte de Chagny. Before today, she had only seen him from afar. Though handsome and slender, the nobleman was also formidable and strong. Blood dripped past his fingertips. His mouth thinned in impatience.

"If it's not yours, why do you want it?" Celeste stubbornly countered. "Maybe you're the thief and only want the ring for yourself!"

She cringed, knowing he could beat her for her insolence. That he wore the fine clothes of a wealthy nobleman made her accusation of thievery absurd. A man of his rank could buy a hundred rings of this nature. Yet not all nobles she had met were noble.

Her words, instead of maddening him further, seemed to baffle him and he stared at her.

"What is your name?" he demanded.

"Ce ... Cedric." She almost gave her true name before remembering her disguise.

"The ring you wear around your neck is no ordinary ring, Cedric. It has the power to discern the heart and can be dangerous in the wrong hands."

She wrinkled her brow in confusion.

"You look at me askance." He chuckled but no humor rang through the sound. "But I sense my words also bring with them revelation. Perhaps you, too, have discovered the ring's secret."

He walked a step closer, and she drew back. The strange words he spoke and his intent expression alarmed her. Her heel brushed against a thick tree trunk. Pinned, she darted a frantic glance up to him.

"The ring," he went on with another step, "offers protection to those whose hearts are pure, but for those who bear wicked intent ..." He stopped in front of her, his fingers wrapping around the leather cord before she realized what he was about. " ... it can be the object of their swift destruction." With a vicious tug, he snapped the cord from around her neck.

"Oh!" Celeste clutched her stinging skin, circling her fingers around her naked throat. "Does not your taking the ring from me make your intent just as evil?" She doubted the truth of his claims regarding the ring, certain he'd only spoken such things to frighten her.

He ignored her question, studying the double tier of crystals that composed the ring, a circle of ten around one stone. He scowled and his eyes burned as he looked at her. "I know the woman to whom this belongs. She was not your aunt but my intended!"

"You're wrong." Celeste spoke before she thought. "It belonged to no woman. The man carried it in his money pouch, and the woman was his."

At her blurted response, his eyes again snapped with blue fire. He grabbed her by the shoulders in a merciless grip and shook her. "How do you know the man carried it in his pouch? Did you take that as well?" When she gave no reply, his fingers dug into her flesh then released her with a swift motion that had her falling back against the tree. "By God! You did! You left them in the wilderness with nothing!"

"He has his horse," Celeste argued, finding it useless to try to hide her crime.

"You little fool," he continued his rant, oblivious to her words. "I'm sworn to protect her. Your act of greed has put Miss Daae in grave danger, to a worse degree than she already was." He paced away, pushing a hand through his fair hair in anxious fury. "I must leave for Spain with all haste."

He mumbled the last words to himself but Celeste heard him. "I can take you to them."

"What?" He swiftly turned to look at her, his face a puzzle of confusion from his thoughts.

She didn't trust this nobleman. Yet he'd taken no liberties with her. She had fooled him into thinking she was a boy, despite that his arm had pressed against the slight curves of her budding womanhood when he'd forced her to walk with him. Since he had not noticed then, surely she could maintain this charade. She wished to leave France but knew the dangers of journeying alone, especially if her disguise was uncovered. Though it was ironic, she felt she would be safe in his company.

"I overheard them say where they were going. I'll show you."

"If you mean to Seville I'm well aware of that."

She narrowed her eyes at his dismissive attitude. "They spoke of other things besides Seville. I listened to their conversation, though they had no knowledge of it."

"Tell me all you know!" He made a move toward her.

She backed away. "Only if you take me to Spain."

"What makes you think I would allow you, a thief and a liar, to ride with me?" He gave a sneering laugh. "The only place for a boy like you is the jailhouse. Perhaps a night in a cell will help loosen your tongue."

"Non!" she cried as he again grabbed her and began walking with her. "I can help you! Honest, monsieur! My brother – he was a tracker and taught me. Please, do not turn me over to the police!"

The gendarmes would discover her identity, she knew it, and her aunt would learn of her capture and that filthy lecher would come for her again – if he was still alive. And if he wasn't, it could mean her death. She struggled, kicking at his boots. He swore but didn't release his hold.

"Be still, boy!"

"Non! I won't go there – I _won't!_" Helpless tears filled her eyes.

After more of her struggling, the nobleman suddenly pushed her from him. She stumbled and fell to the grass.

"Be gone with you then," he commanded, "and never show your face at Whiterose again! The day you do will be the day you commit yourself to a cell in prison."

He turned on his heel so fast, Celeste barely had time to think. Baffled, she watched him storm away in the direction of the stable. Had he really let her go? Though she begged for freedom, she could scarcely believe he'd granted it. But he now had her ring, and she wanted it back. She doubted his claims concerning it. Before he spoke of Spain, she had never thought of going there. Now she would. And she would reclaim her ring.

Determined, Celeste kept to the shadows far behind the Vicomte and returned to the stables to hide and wait.

**xXx**

Erik heard Christine's shout and whipped his startled attention from the top of the funnel toward her. Doubly amazed to see her galloping toward him on his stallion, her expression as resolute as a warrior goddess, he scrambled up from where he'd been knocked to the ground by the force of the wind and raced her way. She brought Orion alongside him. With the ease born of agility and a lifetime of need for such swift moves, Erik jumped onto the saddle behind Christine, reclaiming the reins. He turned Orion toward the mountain of rock and urged the stallion into a fast gallop.

One hand clutching Orion's mane, one arm along Erik's that encircled her waist, Christine darted a look behind her, past Erik. Alarm made her catch her breath when she saw the windstorm had died down. The lights that shot inside the rapid current of air now flickered dimly.

Erik tightened his hold around Christine as he reined in Orion. The stallion reared up on his hind legs. Christine clutched both horse and Erik in a death grip. They managed to remain seated while he brought Orion under control. She swung her gaze before them to see what would cause Erik to bring their escape to such an abrupt halt. For the second time she sat speechless, her eyes stunned.

"What does it mean?" She twisted her head around to look at Erik.

His expression just as bewildered, his mouth had fallen open in shock. "I don't know."

She looked back to the foot of the mountain, where a white light shone as brightly as the sun from the wall of rock far to her left. It reminded her of the presence they left in the forest days ago, the light that led her from the Phantom's dark realm. Behind, she heard the wind cease. Rain began to pummel the earth.

"Erik! We cannot stay here!"

He nodded tensely and urged Orion into a fast gallop toward the mysterious glowing beacon. As he approached, an aged man in white robes seemed to step from nowhere, out of the rock, a staff in his hand.

Christine gasped in alarm. Erik cursed, again bringing Orion to an abrupt halt. This time when the stallion reared, the stranger held out his hand in authority, palm outward. Orion immediately quieted. Eyes wide, Christine stared at the strange man. His curly white hair and beard hung past his shoulders. Below that, Christine saw the symbol of Light, the same as she wore, hanging from a chain around his neck.

"Come." His wizened face lifted to them. "There is no time for delay." With that he seemed to vanish inside the mountain. As he did, the white light followed him.

Erik hesitated, and Christine shot a glance behind. The windstorm barrier had all but disappeared, but their pursuers had not. Even now, one of the horsemen raced past the dwindling current of air and toward them.

"Erik, we must do as he says – he's a friend, I know this. We cannot stay and risk capture!"

His nod abrupt, he guided Orion to the place where they last saw the man. It was then they noticed the six-foot crevice in the tall rock, only visible as they moved within a few feet of it. The gap stood less than two feet wide, and Erik eyed it with doubt. Orion would not fit through the fissure.

"Leave the horse." The robed stranger appeared at the opening, confirming Erik's concern. "Bring only what is necessary and come quickly."

"Who are you?" Erik demanded.

The old man shook his head. "It is enough that I know who you are, Erik, spirit of Music, King of its realm." Erik's mouth parted in stunned disbelief that he would know him, but the stranger continued, his tone untroubled, "If you do not wish your intended to wind up in the hands of evil men, you must release your horse and come with me at once."

Erik shared a quick look with Christine then removed the saddlebags. With no time for a farewell to his faithful friend, he stroked Orion's neck once, before turning him in the opposite direction of a nearby forest. The rain drove into the earth, blinding in its fury. With their pursuers far enough away, they could be tricked into thinking Erik and Christine still rode the stallion. With a slap to the horse's rump, Erik exclaimed, "Go, mon ami! Lead them on a merry chase. You are free."

The horse nickered, and Erik gave it another swift slap. He told himself the rain brought the moisture to his eyes. "Go!"

Orion charged away, his powerful legs churning up mud as he galloped toward the forest. Erik took hold of Christine's hand and swiftly led her to the cave entrance, the door into the mountain. He moved through the crevasse, and she followed.

The old man had again disappeared.

**xXx**


	21. Unguarded Moment

**Chapter XXI**

**xXx**

**.**

Darkness whispered, settling into the deep corners of the room while the moon remained silent in its ascent, casting dim light into the bloody washbasin beneath the window. Raoul glanced at the great orb in the sky then took a fortifying drink of brandy. Thus prepared, he poured the golden liquid over the deep cut that raced from his first knuckle to below his thumb.

"God!" he cried, hissing between his teeth as fire singed torn flesh that revealed tendon and bone. The wound should be sewn together, but no physician lived nearby. He dared not attempt suturing it himself since he was not as adept with his left hand as he was with his right. Nor did he have the aptitude to use a needle.

He rued his spontaneous decision to let the scamp go. The lad had spirit but remained a menace to society and Raoul had erred by allowing pity to cloud logic. When he had looked into Cedric's wide teary eyes as the boy struggled to break free, he'd seen such sharp terror that went beyond the fear of capture by the gendarmes for thievery. The boy had become hysterical, as if afraid for his very life. In that moment the cry of mercy demanded leniency and Raoul had succumbed to its plea.

Foolishness on his part, he could see that now. He tightly wrapped and tucked a clean kerchief around his hand.

"Raoul?"

Upon hearing his mother, he quickly whisked the involuntary tears borne of pain from his lashes and slipped his bandaged hand behind him, assuming a casual stance as he turned to her. With his waistcoat draped over the back of a chair, he possessed no means of concealing evidence of his wound. He had no wish to cause alarm and bring even more anxiety to her heart.

"I heard you cry out," she explained as she entered his bedchamber. "Are you ill?"

"No, Mother." He moved the few steps needed to bridge the distance and kissed her cheek. "How fortunate that you are still awake. I need to speak with you." He surveyed her appearance. The worry over his father had not diminished, he knew, but more color touched her face and she appeared well rested. "Please, sit down."

He helped her to a chair by the window. Bringing his free hand behind him as well, an action his father used often, he remained standing. "Information has reached me concerning Miss Daae, and I must leave Whiterose for a short period of time."

"Oh, Raoul, no! You won't return to Paris and that nasty revolution? All those guns and cannon ...why, I fear it is the onset of the decline of all French civilization!"

He hid a smile at her dramatics. "I won't be going to Paris, no."

"And what of myself, Raoul? Would you leave me here, forlorn and alone?"

"You have Aunt Helena for company, the estate is well protected and her manager is trustworthy. You will fare well."

Hearing a step outside the hall, and seeing his mother had left the door open and his aunt sweeping past, he called for her to join them.

"Is anything the matter?" she asked as she stopped inside the entrance.

Raoul repeated what he'd told his mother.

She swept the rest of the way inside. "I assure you, Raoul, that your mother will be well attended. She will want for nothing."

"Except a son," his mother said petulantly.

"I will return as soon as I'm able," he assured, coming up behind to rest his good hand on her shoulder. "With company, I trust."

His mother patted his hand and held it, then twisted around to look at him. "Nothing I can say will dissuade you …? No, I suppose not. You have that look in your eye." She sighed. "The same look as your father's, how well I know it."

"Mother ..." he hesitated then changed his mind about speaking.

"I suppose there's nothing to be done." She shook her head as if she'd not heard him. "Help me to my feet, Raoul, I wish to retire early. Do not dare leave before bidding me farewell."

"Of course not." A niggling concern wormed into his heart as he offered her his good hand. "Are you feeling well?"

"Oh, my yes. I took a long turn about the garden today. It is vast, and with all those lovely roses. Have you seen them?" She looked suddenly disturbed. "But, I suppose I should have said I was ill so that I might wheedle you into staying." She gave a rueful laugh. "Of course I would think of that now."

"This is something I must do, Mother."

"Yes, yes, I know. I've heard it all before." She let out a resigned breath. "In one manner you and your father are alike. You are both stubborn to a fault."

"Allow me to help you to your room, dear," the Dowager Comtesse said. Before she left with her arm around his mother, she mouthed the words to Raoul, "I wish to speak with you alone."

Mystified, Raoul nodded. While he awaited his aunt's return, he packed his valise. With the use of only one hand his actions were sluggish and awkward. He detested not having use of his right hand. He doubted he would be able to wield a sword any time soon.

Thoughts of his recent wound spun him back to the memory of the ill-fated swordfight. Only one other time had he received a deep wound from a blade, one that still caused him physical pain when the weather grew fierce and injured only his pride when the skies boded peace.

That madman had struck him, the Phantom. On the offensive, wishing only to rid Christine of the thing's presence, Raoul had been the first to draw his blade but soon fought to defend himself. After the Phantom sliced his arm, rage boiled throughout Raoul's blood, rage unfamiliar to him, and he sought to kill, no longer to capture. Had Christine not stopped him and begged for mercy, he would have taken the fiend's life.

God, how he wished he had.

A tread in the corridor alerted him, and again he hid his hand behind his back.

His aunt entered the room, closing the door as she did so, and faced him. "Now, what have you done to yourself?" she asked as if he were a small child.

"I beg your pardon?" Perplexed, he shook his head.

"Why? Do you need it?" She moved toward the washbasin before he could stop her. The liquid tinged murky pink gave his wound away, and he clamped his jaw when she retrieved the crumpled toweling stained red from behind the porcelain bowl.

"You don't hide your secrets well." She clicked her tongue. "Let me see."

Like a penitent boy, he withdrew his hand for her perusal. She shook her head, unrolling the clumsy bandage, and drew a harsh breath as the cloth fell away. "Mon Dieu! This is bad. How did it happen?"

"An accident," he hedged, not wishing to reveal the truth.

"An accident." She speared him with a disbelieving look, and he redirected his focus to his injured hand. She sighed. "It must be sewn. I will fetch my needle."

"You?" He couldn't hide his surprise.

She lifted her thin brows. "I am not one of the female simpletons so prominent among members of my station," she explained dryly. "I assure you, nephew, I've been well taught in how to deal with many an emergency, and with no physician living in the vicinity, my services have been required long before this." Her eyes grew sympathetic as she lifted the crystal bottle from its place beside the washbasin and set it close to him. "Pour yourself a glass. You'll need it."

She quit the room a second time, and Raoul refilled the small glass to the brim. He had drained his second and poured a third by the time she returned. A warm haze clouded his mind, reducing it to a cloud of cotton wool.

She took one look at him. "Yes, I think you're ready. Tell me what happened." She sterilized the threaded needle with brandy.

"I would prefer not to." He watched the point of the needle touch his flesh, and clamped his teeth hard against the fierce sting as she pulled it through. Shaky, he drained the brandy and reached for the bottle, sloshing more into his glass.

"Raoul, you will need to remain still, or this may turn into elaborate embroidery and not plain stitchery."

He chuckled at her light words and inhaled a swift hiss at the second prick of the needle. "What emergencies have you dealt with in so privileged a life, dear Aunt Helena?" he asked, wishing to focus on something besides the torture she inflicted to his hand.

A haunted look touched her eyes as she lifted them to his. "Do not be deceived, Raoul. I may have lived a life of luxury, but no life is without trials. I have endured more than my fair share."

"Of course." He felt badly for having spoken in such a glib manner and took another drink. He usually drank for social pleasure alone, never to the point of inebriation, and wondered how long this pleasant warmth and disassociation from reality would last.

Unfortunately the brandy also loosened his tongue.

"When I was at University, one of my professors approached me seven weeks before the conclusion of my final term and told me I'd been chosen. Did I tell you?"

"No, Raoul." She never looked up from her task.

"Of course not, we only met weeks ago, didn't we?" He chuckled, not sure why he laughed, drained his glass and refilled it. "He taught me many truths outside the classroom and said I'd been given a mission in a secret society of which he was a member, and I'd been conscripted as well. That I must share my knowledge with those trapped inside darkness." He held his glass at the level of his mouth. "I was to protect and help those in need, but my mission was to be kept secret." He brought his index finger to his lips, sloshing brandy onto his shirt. "Shhhh." He frowned down at the splotch that spread across the pristine white linen and drank two-thirds of what remained in the glass.

"I was to be kept secret, hidden behind a mask in a masquerade ... a mask ..." He frowned, his mind going to the Phantom. "He wore a mask. She said he was King. Music ..."

Grimacing, he poured more brandy into his glass.

"Perhaps you've had enough," his aunt suggested, a catch in her voice.

He ignored her advice and took another drink to help dull the pain. "Before I left University, my professor assigned me my first mission. The Opera Populaire." He said the words with excessive panache though they came out a bit slurred. "I had no trouble convincing my parents to support the arts of such a world-renowned theater, or of sending me as their liaison. It all worked perrrfectly. And then, that first night, I saw her and recognized something in her voice." His gaze grew unfocused as he remembered. "A vision in white ... as if light dwelt inside her ... so beautiful. Christine." His dreamy features hardened to steel. "But she was tricked, ensnared by a man who served and dwelled in darkness, a murderer controlled by the Angel of Death and all his minions … how could she go to that fiend, that … thing?"

His aunt stopped her task to stare at him. He clutched his head with his free hand, as memory of that final night broke loose from the dungeon of his mind to which he had chained it. "The Phantom ... Madame's right. They all were. It was the spirit who controlled the wretched beast who robbed me of my bride! But he's just as guilty for allowing it free rein."

"Raoul, you must calm yourself. You aren't making sense." She tied a knot. "There I'm finished. Let me wrap your hand and then you must rest."

He allowed her to bind his hand loosely in a clean cloth. "I failed in my mission, my only mission. I tried to reach her, tried to warn her, to help her, to free her – but would she listen? She refused to see truth, refused to heed my warnings … because of his trickery. His lies ... that thing ... a man with half a face ..."

"Tell me no more." His aunt secured the bandage and stood. "Get some sleep, Raoul. I will leave you now so that you may."

Before he could utter another word, she moved for the door, her actions swift, almost desperate. Or perhaps that was the brandy. Everything seemed surreal. The words he'd spoken whirled round and round inside his mind, a merry-go-round, spinning faster and faster, feeding his resentment and anger with each dizzying revolution. Each difficult revelation.

In one swift motion he stood. He grabbed the edge of the table as the world continued to spin and waited until the room righted itself before staggering to his cupboard. Two essential items were missing from his valise.

With grim purpose, Raoul retrieved both of his pistols and the ammunition for them. He would take his sword as well.

This time, he would give no mercy.

**xXx**

Once Christine moved through the hidden passageway, keeping tight hold of Erik's hand, she blinked at the sudden thick darkness into which they'd been immersed. Only a sliver of dark gray reminded her of the world outside, and for a moment fear attacked her soul as she remembered the Phantom's horrifying realm.

Panicked, she searched the blackness with her eyes. Far to the left, she spotted the faintest trace of a glow around a bend of rock. Eagerly she moved in the direction of the fading light, pulling Erik.

"Christine, wait."

He kept hold of her hand but remained immobile. She looked at him in question though he couldn't see her. Nor could she see him. And she brought her other hand up to clutch his wrist, as if to hold on, afraid they might be parted.

"I don't think we should follow," his rich voice came to her. "Let us wait until the danger has passed and find another way around the mountain."

Surprised at his hesitance, she blinked. "I disagree. He knows the path and will lead us to safety."

He blew out an exasperated breath. "What do we know about this man, Christine? He called me by name. How do we know that he's not one of those determined to apprehend me, that this is not another trap?"

"Erik ..." She moved closer until she could feel his warmth. "He's from the Light. Can you not see the white radiance that surrounds him?"

"A magician's trick used to deceive. I have done much the same with smoke and fire. How do we know this light is not mere trickery on his part?"

"He knew the full truth of who you are. Who outside the opera house would recognize this, except someone who can see past the mask and inside your heart to the music there? As I have done. As Madame Giry and my father must have done." She lifted one hand higher to find and cup his cheek. "You must learn to have faith, my beloved, to trust. The Light and those who serve it mean you no harm. Only it can save you. I cannot. Nor can any man or woman upon this earth. The choice is yours alone, dear Angel, just as your choice to leave the darkness of your former kingdom rested solely upon you."

She had never spoken thus and heard his surprised gasp. She'd been remiss though she had often followed her spirit's gentle instruction and called him to the Light when they lived at the opera house. Repeatedly. Day after day, week after week. In her mind she had issued the words, in her heart she had hoped for his response. And finally, he had answered her silent plea.

Yet to explain to him what she knew about the Light, when she remained ignorant regarding the full crux of its power, seemed of little merit when compared to the instruction a priest commissioned in the calling could give. Erik needed a wise man who fully understood the message and could deliver it with clarity. She knew only what she learned as a child, first through her mother who died seven months before her father, as well as through her dear Papa's stories from the Holy Book he sometimes read to her. And she held fast to those cherished beliefs during all her years at the opera house.

"You linger," the voice seemed to echo in the caverns behind them, audible above the rain drumming the ground outside. "Perhaps you wish to be led by the hand?"

She felt Erik stiffen. "My pardon, good monsieur," he intoned in a cutting voice. "Of late, our unexpected company has left little to be desired and has given me sound reason for delay."

"An understandable action on your part." Amusement traced the low words. "Yet the trek ahead is a lengthy one, and I wish to deliver you to the other side of this mountain before nightfall."

"Deliver us?" Erik moved his arm and she felt his hand go to the hilt of his sword. "Into whose hands?"

"Mon Ange, please," she whispered, putting her hand to his wrist to stop him.

The stranger moved into view. Still stunning in its brightness, his luminosity had nonetheless dimmed so that it no longer blinded, and now cast them in its gentle glow. His wise eyes seemed sympathetic. "The trait of distrust has run deep in your blood for many generations, but you have had more cause to welcome its crippling hold than has your father or his father before him."

The words struck Erik a powerful blow. "My father ..." He could barely speak the words. "You know _my father? _What is his name?"

The stranger shook his head. "There are questions you must find the answers to for yourself. I was not sent to reveal the key to all the mysteries that have riddled your destiny. Be assured, in time you will understand their full meaning."

Christine guilelessly walked toward the man, enthusiasm rapt on her face. Her skin glowed with it, much like the aura surrounding their mysterious host.

"You _are_ from the Light then?" she asked, her words awed.

"Yes, child." His expression gentled.

"Are you the source from whence it comes?"

"No, I am only a messenger sent to serve those who heed its direction."

Ill at ease that Christine stood so close to a man about whom they knew only what scant little he chose to tell them, Erik moved to stand beside her. Now closer to him than he'd ever been, Erik studied the man's features in greater detail. Sparkles of miniscule light, like the residue from numerous stars, shimmered in his lined face and wooly beard. Foreign symbols, resembling Greek letters, were embroidered in glowing silver and graced the long folds, sleeves, and hem of his robe. Even his staff seemed to glisten within the creases.

"Are you satisfied?" The man asked Erik, ascertaining his scrutiny.

Erik still had reservations but Christine eagerly nodded. "Yes, of course." She turned to Erik, her smile entrancing, and slipped her hand through his arm pressing it close to her side. "Come, my Angel. We have nothing to fear. He was sent to help us."

His heart brimming with loving frustration, Erik surveyed her joy, feeling like a distant bystander. Still as gullible as a child, believing anyone who spoke words that tickled her ears, Christine could not perceive the caution he exercised, the tragedy he tried to prevent. As her guardian, this further stoked his irritation, but his consuming love for her desired to give her all that she asked, and he found himself offering an abrupt nod of consent. Even three days in the Phantom's fearsome presence had done nothing to discourage his Angel from the folly of blind trust. But then, compared to a lifetime of darkness and the terror he suffered, she had no reason to suspect everyone she came into contact with, as he did.

"Will you come, Child of Evensong?" the stranger asked him. "You alone must make the decision. I cannot choose your path for you."

Child of Evensong- indeed! Yet, his words struck a forgotten chord deep within Erik, blunting his disgust. To stay near the entrance meant to risk discovery, and while he did not fear confronting the two who hunted him down, a part of him even anticipating it, he would never place Christine in mortal jeopardy.

"Erik?" Christine asked.

"Yes." His voice remained hard as he stared at the being. "We will go with him."

Her smile of gratitude was breathtaking, the manner in which she squeezed his arm calming. For her sake alone, he would allow this robed oracle to lead them through the unknown mountain, but he would keep a watchful eye on him. At the first sign of trickery, their guide would wish he'd never set eyes upon the man once feared as the Opera Ghost.

The robed being led them through a labyrinth of narrow passages, twisting first one way, then another. Uneven stalactites dripped down from the glittering ceiling of rock at intervals while rows of stalagmites seemed to grow through the stone floor like jagged teeth. At times a current of fresh cool air brushed his face from some unseen avenue that tunneled to the world outside.

They walked for what seemed hours, stopping only briefly to catch their breath. Though she offered no complaint, Erik worried about Christine, who was still recovering from her ordeal. Exertion flushed her cheeks and her hair curled in tight tendrils, strands of it damp against her face. When they left the forest where he battled the powers of hell for her life, he had intended that she ride the remainder of their journey. He never once anticipated the long trek she now endured. Even as he watched, her shoulders drooped from exhaustion and she stumbled on the path.

Unable to bear another moment of her silent suffering, he put a hand to her waist to stop her. "Christine, wait." He looked ahead to see their guide had halted and turned to face them. "You allege to have great wisdom. Can you not see she needs rest?"

"We have nearly reached the halfway point of our journey."

"She needs rest now!"

"I am well, Erik." Her eyes tried to reassure him. "Truly."

In frustration he pulled the container of water from his shoulder. "Drink this, at least. Refresh yourself, my Angel."

She nodded in gratitude and he held what remained of the water for her, tipping the receptacle to her lips. She covered his hands with hers. When he pulled the flask away, she didn't remove her hands and slowly she lifted her eyes to his. He caught his breath at the undisguised love for him he read there, as he did each time he witnessed the marvel of it upon her face.

"We must continue," the intruder said.

Erik shot him a withering glance, exhaling an irritated breath, and returned his attention to Christine. "Are you able to walk?" Despite his own fatigue, he would carry her without hesitation.

She nodded. "The water refreshed me."

As they resumed their journey, the water appeared to do more than refresh her. It emboldened her.

"Sir," she addressed the stranger leading them. "May I speak?"

"You may."

His tone seemed condescending to Erik, but then she spoke to him as an untrained pupil would to a wise elder, her voice soft with awe.

"Have you a name by which you are called?"

At first he didn't appear inclined to satisfy her curiosity, then, without slowing his rapid pace, he replied, "You may call me Malakh."

"Malakh?" Confusion swept across her face. "What a strange name. What does it mean?"

The stranger looked over his shoulder at her.

"Forgive me. That was impertinent. My father, when he lived, enjoyed looking into the meanings of names," she explained like a chastened child. "Sometimes I do the same."

He gave a brusque nod. "It means messenger."

"Messenger. How astounding." Erik couldn't refrain from silence any longer, using sarcasm as a means to unleash his tense irritation that was building with each moment that passed. "And what tidings do you bring us, oh honored herald of the mountain? Tidings of good, or of evil?"

"Erik," Christine pleaded.

Malakh regarded him steadily before resuming his course through the narrow tunnel of rock. "You shall know soon enough."

His calm words did little to soothe Erik's temperament, and his nerves had stretched taut by the time they arrived at a cavernous room. A waft of cool air stirred against their faces. A ceiling of gray rock loomed high above and appeared as smooth as the ground on which they now walked. A pool of black water shimmered in the center of the cathedral-like chamber and flowed through a small opening, impassable to anyone except a dwarf, perhaps, leading the way to who knew where.

Christine eyed the water with longing.

Malakh nodded toward it. "Drink. It is fit for consumption."

"Christine, wait." Before she could do more than dip her hand in the pool, Erik intervened. He shot a suspicious glance at their host before kneeling to scoop water into his palm and test it as a precaution.

The chill liquid refreshed his lips and tongue, its flavor sweeter and purer than any water Erik had ever tasted, and he looked up in surprise.

"You approve?" Malakh said with an annoying lift to his eyebrow.

Erik didn't allow him the satisfaction of a response. Instead he turned his head to look at Christine and gave her a nod of acquiescence.

"Here, you may rest," Malakh said as Christine eagerly drank of the water and Erik watched her, his heart tender, before he also drank.

"And I ask yet again, what is your full intent?" Erik inquired once he slaked his thirst. When he received no reply, he looked behind him.

Once more Malakh had disappeared, likely into one of the distant passages Erik glimpsed from his position by the pool. A dim white glow remained inside the chamber, though Erik could not discern its source.

"Monsieur Wraith is a name better suited to you," he muttered.

"Did you say something?" Christine asked, capturing Erik's full attention.

Again, compassion touched his heart to see her weariness. She leaned against one hand where she sat, her eyelids heavy.

"Nothing of consequence." He stood to unclasp his cloak in order to spread it on the ground for her to lie upon. "You must rest."

She reached up and took hold of his arm before he could touch the fastening. "The danger has passed, Erik ... at last. Think of it. Tomorrow we shall be in Spain. Do you realize this is the first moment of true peace we've had in weeks, in _months_? We're safe now."

He helped her to her feet. She seemed not to notice that he abstained from giving a response. He did not share her optimism, did not trust Malakh, and despite all the twists and turns they'd taken, he feared the men chasing them might discover their ruse with Orion and find and gain entrance into the mountain. Had he traps laid, they would never find them, but now they were vulnerable to capture.

She kept her hands in his, her eyes shining. "We're free, Mon Ange." She giggled then staggered a step, her legs unsteady.

He tightened his hold not allowing her to lose balance. Tenderness to see her so giddy yet so weary washed over him. "You need to sleep, Christine. We still have far to travel, and you must not overtax your strength."

She glanced at their surroundings, then at him. "I doubt I could find comfort lying upon such a hard surface. But with you, to hold me ..."

Erik followed her gaze to the wall of rock nearest them and met her eyes again, now glowing with hope. His heart gave an unsteady beat and he nodded.

Her soft hand in his, he allowed her to lead him to the wall. She sank to the ground, and he took a place beside her, leaning his upper back against the smooth rock, which glimmered like white marble. Opening his arms to her, he experienced pleasure when her slender arm slipped around his torso, hugging him closely, and she rested her head upon his shoulder.

Each time when she reached out to him in an expression of love or desire, his soul withdrew to a realm of profound delight. He felt her touch to the deepest marrow of his bones. After a lifetime of being denied any sort of physical intimacy – a hug, a kiss, even a hand clapped to the shoulder in friendship – her tender affections influenced him in a manner he could never fully express in words. They softly battered at the gate of his long-held defenses and captured his breath while stirring his heart, making him feel more like a man and less like the monster he'd been called.

"We _will _be safe now, Erik, and we shall find and dwell in a life of contentment and peace, one that has eluded us." She moved her hand to cradle his jaw, lifting her head to look into his eyes. "You will see, it will happen."

Before he could comment, she reached up to brush her moist lips against his. Tightening his hold around her, he returned her unhurried kisses, pressing his lips more firmly against hers. He moved his tongue forward, seeking entrance, and she opened her mouth to him without hesitation. He softly groaned, savoring this stolen moment of bliss, as their kisses grew deeper, more sensual, and the fire began to burn…

Shocked to feel dampness against his cheek, Erik moved his hand to the side of her face, breaking their kiss. His thumb brushed slowly over the glistening trail a tear had made on her smooth skin, and his eyes questioned her distress.

"I almost lost you today." Emotion colored her voice. "You could have been killed."

Once more confronted with evidence of her fear for his safety, he felt amazement that she should care so strongly and treated the matter as though it were of little consequence.

"Those two buffoons posed little threat. Even had the windstorm not arisen, their aim was pathetic."

She frowned. "Promise me you'll never again run toward danger, Erik, that you'll never again put yourself in harm's way."

"To protect you, I will do what I must," he countered softly.

"If you die, I'll have no reason to live."

His manner grew serious, intense. "Don't say that, Christine. Even without thinking. You don't mean it."

"I do." Her fingers tightened around the loose folds of his shirt, as if she feared death would seep through the crevices in the rocks and come swallow him whole at any moment.

"No matter if anything happens to me in the future, you must go on living," he insisted.

She barely shook her head, desperate tears clouding her eyes, and he gave her shoulders a little shake. "You _will live, _Christine. Promise me!"

She continued to shake her head ever so slightly, her brow furrowing more deeply, until he fiercely pulled her close and pressed her cheek against his shoulder. Closing his eyes, he held her in silence until her trembling abated. Her quiet tears dampened his skin and weakened his resolve.

He released a weary sigh, purposely making his tone light. "It seems we have reached an impasse, Mon Ange. Neither of us willing to consent to the vow asked of each other. As such, I see but one recourse."

"Yes?" The word came muffled against his shirt.

"I must do all within my power to stay alive."

She gave a trembling short laugh and lifted her head to kiss him again. Hard, quick, relieved little kisses upon his jaw and mouth – before she again nestled close, pressing her head against his shoulder and wrapping her arm across his stomach.

With his arms wrapped just as tightly around her, Erik listened as fatigue overtook her will to remain awake and her breathing grew soft near his ear, the tempo even. With feather-light movements, so as not to disturb her slumber, he brushed his chin back and forth against her soft curls, relishing the warm feel of her in his arms. His body exhausted but his mind too alert for sleep, he leaned his head against the wall and pondered all that occurred.

She spoke of safety, but he sensed they were not free of danger. Whether an unlikely ally or a probable foe, the mysterious Malakh could not be counted on to return. And while Erik felt confident that he could lead them out of the mountain, due to his lifetime education of a cavern's perils and secrets, that still didn't change the fact that he bore no knowledge of what awaited them on the other side.

**xXx**


	22. Destiny Foretold

**Chapter XXII**

**xXx**

**.**

Once Mère left to return her handiwork to the seamstress, Meg pulled out her stationery box. The pages of the letter may well become their own tome, but even if Christine never read them, penning the words had proven beneficial for Meg's peace of mind. In relating the events of Paris and her life, thus providing a written testimony as they unfolded, she no longer felt as if she languished, alone, in a forgotten corner of the world. However, today's entry grieved her heart, and her hand trembled as she wrote, picking up from where she'd left off:

_3rd of April, 1871_

_I have sad news to relate, news Mère shared with me that she heard in the city. I feel you would want to know; Monsieur Reyer suffered a stroke three weeks past. I do not believe former events at the opera house brought this about, so please, neither of you should burden yourselves with unnecessary remorse. This revolution has caused a great stir of excitement, but it has also brought unforeseen anguish, and I feel Paris's rebellion aided in his collapse. He cannot speak, and all that is left of his family has drawn near to be with him, as has his widowed daughter, Sabine, with whom he's had no contact for six years. She has moved to the city to care for him. I hope learning that gives you comfort, as it did me. I always thought him such a funny and kind little man, a gentleman, one of few who lived at the opera house, though praise earned from him for a performance was difficult to win, as I'm sure you will recall. I remember how he would often smack his baton against the podium in trying to bring the chorus to a semblance of order, ignorant rabble that we were, and I smile with poignant fondness as I write this, at the memory of how exceedingly horrible those rehearsals had been! Poor Monsieur Reyer._

_Other men have also experienced attacks of their hearts and souls at such a harrowing moment in our country's existence. Mère tells me that Monsieur Reyer was loyal to the Napoleonic regime, so he must view this rebellion as a betrayal of his countrymen. For myself, I cannot express an opinion, except to say that though nothing untoward has occurred, I share Mère's fears that the existing peace is superficial. The troops have withdrawn, but something about their easy surrender of Paris leaves me apprehensive, though again, I cannot explain my feelings, except to convey they exist._

_Messieurs Firmin and Andre have returned to the junk business, and I say good riddance. I never felt comfortable around our former managers. They often looked at me so strangely, with an evil light in their eyes, as if they could see through my dress and even past my chemise! It made me shiver when they lurked nearby. I know you must have felt it too, for they looked at you the same._

_I have saved the lighter news for last; at least I hope you will think it so. No longer mourn over La Carlotta's distress regarding her loss of Signor Piangi. The diva is now mistress to one of the stodgy noblemen who swarmed out of Paris en masse, and they have gone to live in Versailles. So refrain from harboring any qualms that she still clothes herself in black (trimmed in pink, of course), and refuses to speak to a soul. Perhaps she did grieve at first, I will grant her that. She was not completely pitiless and I suppose three weeks' mourning is to be considered astounding for one so vain. You should have heard the spectacle she presented each time she realized her public stood near. I daresay, even the good nuns at the Charité Hospital have never witnessed so many swooning spells or distressed moans as came from La Carlotta. Perhaps I am being unkind, though the haughty stares she gave you incensed me. She sounds happy, if misguided, but she was never one to listen well. I hear the nobleman she has chosen as her lover is quite fickle and changes mistresses as often as he changes hats. Still, "that is La Carlotta," as everyone at the opera house was wont to say._

The creak of the outside door opening made Meg look up from her parchment and set it and her quill aside. "Mère?"

"Oui, _ma_ _chère_, who else?" Her mother's words were light. "I have brought company."

_Oh please, let it not be the Vicomte. _Even as the fervent thought rushed through Meg's mind she recalled Mère telling her news that due to his father's serious illness, the Vicomte de Chagny had taken his mother to his aunt's home in Rouen. A twinge of unwanted sympathy for the man had her clench her jaw, loath that any tender emotion linked with him should clutter her heart.

She pulled the counterpane higher, tucking it around her waist before her mother stepped inside the room. A wiry, bespectacled gentleman of considerable height followed. He had to duck to avoid the frame of the small entranceway.

"Monsieur Durand, er, Doctor," Meg amended.

"Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Giry." He removed his hat and set down a black satchel. "You were correct with your first address. I am but an apprentice to Dr. Morel."

She looked past him in expectation.

"Dr. Morel could not come due to a crisis within his family. He found it necessary to leave the city, temporarily of course, and asked that I look in on you. I apologize for the late hour, but I was on my way home and passing by your tenement."

"I see." Uncertain, she eyed the physician's novice, who she assumed to be in his mid-twenties. He accompanied Dr. Morel on two previous visits, but Meg had paid scant attention to the aide, other than to offer him a curious glance the day he first entered the room and Dr. Morel made introductions.

As he approached her bed, she studied him. Coal-dark hair made his skin seem pasty, and a drooping mustache added to the effect. His hazel eyes regarded her with quiet confidence, and reassured, she did not prevent him from pulling back the blanket.

He cleared his throat. "If you would be so kind."

Sensing what he wanted, though he did not express it, warmth seeped into her face. She tugged up the hem of her nightdress, stopping mid-thigh, so as to reveal her leg to his scrutiny.

After a moment's hesitation, making Meg wonder, he prodded the white flesh below and above the Plaster of Paris cast with cool fingers, his eyes taking in every inch of her exposed limb while he asked if she felt pain. She murmured one-word responses, hissing a little between her teeth when he placed his hand against the inside of her thigh, so as to move her leg at a different angle and inspect it further. His action made her feel strange and uneasy. All the while she reminded herself he was soon to be a physician and she should feel no embarrassment at what seemed so improper an act it made her blush. Except for the grandfatherly Dr. Morel, she'd never felt a man's touch upon her exposed skin, skin usually covered by thick stockings. Mère stood at the door, lending a sense of respectability to the situation. Yet though the examination proceeded with clinical professionalism, Meg felt relieved when Monsieur Durand straightened.

As he turned to his bag at the foot of her bed, she bent to retrieve the covers and replace them over her legs. Not expecting an answer, she asked the question that followed each of Dr. Morel's examinations.

"So, monsieur, will I walk again?"

He looked at her sharply, before returning his attention to withdrawing packets with what she assumed contained powders similar to those the physician always left for the pain.

"What has Dr. Morel told you?" he asked.

"Nothing, monsieur, nothing at all." She failed to hide her disgust. "He has not once answered my questions, and keeps me always in the dark, as if he thinks me incapable of accepting the truth. But I know it is either one or the other. I will walk, or I will not. And I think I'm entitled to know which of those is my lot. Do you not agree?"

Mère quietly excused herself, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief as she slipped from the room. Meg tensed, awaiting his words.

A battle seemed to wage inside Monsieur Durand. His jaw tensed, and his eyes darted to the table, where he laid the packets. "Dr. Morel asked that I leave these with you. Take them for the pain."

"Tell me." She reached out and seized his arm before he could move away. "S'il vous plait, do not refuse. You must know something to act so evasive."

He looked in surprise at her hand circling his coat sleeve then raised his attention to her steady gaze. She drew a swift breath at the intensity that seemed to pulsate within his eyes.

"Mademoiselle Giry, I may well be speaking out of turn – you are not my patient, I am not yet a physician by law, only a physician's apprentice. Please bear that in mind regarding what I am about to tell you. I have assisted Dr. Morel for more than two years in the medical vocation, as well as daily focused my studies on more recent approaches in the field of medicine. And in my estimation, with continued care and special treatments, I see no reason why you may not only walk again in the future, but dance as well."

Her lips parted in shock. Tears rimmed her eyes and Meg clapped her free hand over her mouth. This, she had not expected. The silence of past weeks, the evasion of questions and whispers outside her room as the physician consulted with her mother had led her to believe the worst.

"Dance?" she whispered.

"Oui. Your body is strong, no doubt due to the rigorous training of years in the ballet corps. The break was clean and no further complications have developed."

"What special treatments? Why did Dr. Morel not tell me of this?"

He sighed. "I have the utmost respect for my tutor, he has saved many lives, working as both a surgeon and a doctor, but he practices only the traditional tenets of medicine that were taught him. He does not support novel ideas."

"But surely, if they can help –"

"He was trained to follow certain methods and is stubborn in that regard."

"Then will you help me, Monsieur Durand? Will you treat me?"

Her words startled him from his impassioned views and he appeared to change his mind, as if he now rued the recklessness of answering her.

"Impossible." He shook her hand from his sleeve. "I told you, Miss Giry, I am not a physician. I've never been to medical school. I've only assisted Dr. Morel."

She wondered why he had received no formal training, but refrained from voicing the question. "Is the treatment dangerous?"

He snapped his satchel shut.

"Is it a method that could cause further harm?"

He picked up his case, preparing to go. Meg leaned forward, clutching the edge of the mattress.

"_Will you not answer me?_"

He halted his steps and released a grave sigh, seeming to turn words over in his mind, before again looking at her. "A paste of special herbs once the cast is removed, applied diligently to the limb each day. Coupled with a daily dousing of the limb in hot mineral waters for a matter of weeks."

"Mineral waters?" Meg repeated, baffled.

"Oui. Many have taken the waters, since the time of the ancient Romans, but it is only recently that such spas have achieved high regard with the nobility. I've read testimonies of those with ailments cured by taking in the waters at the Néris-les-Bains, in Vichy. Elsewhere in France other mineral waters have been therapeutic concerning various maladies, including a fractured rib, from what I read in one gentleman's account."

"But," Meg worked to understand, "if such methods have been used for centuries, why then would Dr. Morel oppose them as being unorthodox?"

"I cannot explain views or opinions other than my own. I simply know Dr. Morel does not approve of such resorts. Also, bear in mind, they charge great expense for their services and only the wealthy can afford them. There are no guarantees that what may prove beneficial for one individual will have the same effect on another. I do not wish to lend you false hope."

"Monsieur Durand," she kept her voice soft. "You, at least, have given me _something _upon which to place my hope. Whether it be false or true, at this point, somehow seems irrelevant. Before tonight, I had nothing left."

His expression softened, as did his voice. "For you, Mademoiselle, I pray that all may be as you wish it. Bonsoir." He replaced his hat atop his head and left the room in silence and Meg in attendance to a whirlpool of thoughts.

**xXx**

Christine awoke to the reassuring sound of her Angel's heart beating beneath her ear. A soft smile tilted her lips. Carefully, so as not to awaken him, she moved his slack arm from around her waist and sat up so she could look at him. A thrill tingled through her to realize that soon, very soon, she would awaken with the coming of each new dawn to find herself sheltered in the warmth of his arms.

In slumber, he sat with his back to the wall, his head leaning sideways, having found a hard and questionable cushion in a jutting ledge of stone. From his awkward position, she knew the night for him must have been miserable, yet for her desire to be held, he had endured the discomfort.

"My dear Erik."

His eyelashes flickered, his lips softly parted as if to answer. Aching to touch him, she lifted her hand to his face. The moment her fingertips came in contact with his cheekbone beneath the mask, his eyes flew open.

"No!" His harsh command resounded off the cavern walls as he wrenched his head from her hand, smacking the back of his skull against the rock.

Her heart gave a painful beat and she snatched her hand away, fisting it in the folds of her skirt while he winced in pain and blinked to reacquaint himself with his surroundings. A span of thick silence held them bound in fetters of regret as they stared at one another, while taut seconds stretched between them.

He released a quiet breath, pushing himself up with the heel of his boot to sit higher. "It was only a dream. I did not mean to frighten you."

"You could never frighten me, Erik."

Despair muted her words. Shame lowered her head. She knew no dream had produced such a turbulent reaction. He had feared she would remove his mask.

Twice she had betrayed his trust, though her intentions had been pure, her actions an attempt to help him realize what he must do to forsake the darkness, the danger, and advance toward the light. But she had hurt him dearly, impressing even more pain into the vulnerable core of his soul, and with that realization, her own heart felt wounded.

_Forgive me, my Angel. _Too overwhelmed to speak, she formed the plea into his mind.

_There is nothing to forgive._

His tender reply drifted into her mind and made her want to weep. At the touch of his hand on her cheek, she leaned into his palm turning her head to place a gentle kiss beneath his thumb.

"Christine, look at me."

She squeezed away a tear and lifted her eyes to his.

He followed the damp trail to her hairline with the slow brush of two of his fingers. "I do not blame you for what happened. Not any longer. Once, I failed to understand, but I was still chained to the darkness of the Phantom's lies, and my fear of what I supposed to be your rejection pushed me over the abyss into a hell of my own making. Now I understand why you made the choice to remove the mask, that you bore no malicious intent."

"Then why?" She reached up to clasp his wrist, her hold almost desperate. "Why do you continue to shut me out? Must the mask always remain a barrier between us, even when we are absent from others? Can you not let it go for my sake? Just between us?"

"Christine, it is difficult. I have relied on it far too long. Even alone in my solitude I never went without it."

"But now you have me. We have each other. You have been given this chance at a new life."

He sighed. "One day, perhaps, I will abandon it. Just between us though."

"It was never about your face."

"I know that now." His reassurance was quiet.

"In the lair, when I first realized, it did shock me – I won't lie to you. I would never lie to you. And I'm sorry I acted so foolishly in removing the mask without first warning you of my intent." She felt the need to speak of those things they'd kept in a prison of uneasy silence for so long. "Part of it I am ashamed to admit was due to curiosity – I had pleaded with you to come out of hiding for so long and I desired to see all of you. I wanted to bring you into the light, away from your darkness, but I failed to understand so much. Then. But even then I never truly feared your appearance, Mon Ange. Rather, it was your subsequent anger that frightened me."

He gave a rueful chuckle. "It seems it is I who should beg your forgiveness."

"No, Erik, it's not necessary. I made no mention of this to accuse you, only to make sure you finally understood."

"Nevertheless, I owe you an apology and more. And I do beg pardon, for the continual sorrow I have caused you these past months –"

She lightly laid her fingertips across his lips, hurting to see his pain. "A king should never have to beg pardon."

He kissed the pads of her fingers, causing warmth to seep inside her, melting away the chill of moments ago, then lowered her hand to speak. "I have never done so before, but I fail to see why not? Even a good king can err, and I was hardly that. But you, my Fair Rose, do not cast blame on yourself for any of what happened. I meant it when I told those present at the Bal Masque that you are worthy to be my Queen."

His eyes burned into hers. "Always, you shall walk by my side, never in my shadow. If it is our destiny, we shall find a new kingdom to rule together. Oh, Christine, I would give you the world, if it were within my grasp ... but in truth, I have nothing left to give." His impassioned words trailed into despondency and he shook his head. "Tell me I have not erred! Daily I live with the memory of my folly. I have evaded capture by men, but my true torturer is my conscience. Ever-present it attacks me with all I have done, to you, to all who were my subjects, even to that wretched boy. In fear and envy I destroyed all that our future was meant to hold."

"It doesn't matter." Swiftly she moved to sit in his lap and embraced him. "Release what cannot be altered, Erik. All I want in this world is you, only you. Nothing else is of consequence," she whispered before pressing her mouth to his warm one with firm reassurance, kissing him again and again, as if she could dissolve each bond of guilt with the impression of her warm lips on his.

After a moment, she pulled away, to take his hand between both of hers. She looked deeply into his eyes, now as moist as her own. "I don't need to be a queen or to share in a kingdom if it's not meant to be, but know this: whether you have a kingdom in this world or whether you are without one, I shall always look upon you as my King and as my beloved. And one day, soon, very soon, as my husband." Her words came soft as she smiled and lifted his hand to her lips, pressing his fingers there in loving homage.

"Ah, but to be Queen is your destiny, little one," a resonant voice shook the air behind them.

Startled, Christine twisted around to see Malakh approach. He used his staff, though his strong, upright stance suggested no reason for his need of one. Regardless of his reappearance into the chamber, she did not stir from Erik's lap, nor did he move his hand from her waist. Instead, he slipped his arm more firmly around her, as if in protection.

"Guardians of Music, your words are prophetic, and the time is now at hand for me to deliver my message to you."

The white radiance surrounding their guide strengthened as he walked further into the cathedral room of stone and the area brightened as though daylight filled it. Christine felt Erik's muscles tense, but he remained silent as Malakh set a cloth bundle onto a boulder then walked closer and stopped before them.

"You have come far and endured much, and this is the message I am to give you. Listen well, for it holds the key to unlock your destiny."

Christine darted a glance at Erik, whose eyes had narrowed slightly in guarded expectation.

"All men of the earth have music lying dormant inside their hearts, though few understand its meaning," Malakh began. "Others are aware of the seed of its existence but are unable or afraid to let it bloom to fruition and receive it. Still others entertain no concept of its truth, and thus perish for lack of understanding. The music must be birthed from within. Only those who hear its eternal song can begin to perceive its truth. From the time you were formed, the hunger that is a very part of your soul and heart and spirit was implanted inside you for a purpose. It is the essence of who you are and who you were created to be. The words I speak are truth and they are light. I do not whisper obscurities by cover of darkness where they cause confusion and cannot be understood. Do you understand what I am telling you, Erik, Sovereign of Music?"

His eyes wide with shock, Erik gave the slightest of nods.

"You will be granted that which you have long desired – you shall teach the people. You and your Queen, side by side, shall reach them. However, true greatness is achieved only through much suffering and pain, and every great ruler must first endure hardship so that he will know how to rule in peace. You will know and understand the meaning of these words I speak. From both man and spirit you will find enemies, but do not fear them. When it is needful, you shall discover strength within you and beside you. A new name will be given you, and a new song shall be birthed inside your heart. Your children will carry its message to the four corners of the world. When the time is nigh, you will remember my words and bear witness to them. Rise up with the Light to conquer fear and all its minions, yet beware the mark of the wolf, for to give credence to its bearer shall surely lead in your swift demise."

Christine barely drew breath the entire time Malakh spoke. On occasion, she glanced at Erik, awed by all that Malakh revealed, seeing the same astonishment written on Erik's face as he stared at the robed oracle.

"As for you, Daughter of the Light ..."

His sudden address toward her made Christine inhale a swift breath, and Erik's arm tensed around her waist.

"Although young in years, you have been given wisdom that recognizes no age. From the time you were a small child learning at your father's knee, you possessed the gift of nurturing those whom you love, but have been given little opportunity to exercise that gift. The time is nigh for those talents, once buried, to come forth. Not only will you bear the children of your King, others not of your loins will come to you for instruction and aid. From near and far they will come to you. The destitute, the castaways, the orphans, you will be a mother to them all."

Beset by powerful emotion, Christine held her breath, feeling lightheaded by all Malakh told her.

"You were created into Music by the spirit of Music, and for Music you were intended. This was ordained long before Erik spoke with your father to arrange a marriage between you. You descend from a bloodline of warriors who knew both strength and mercy, and you will be a pillar to your husband, at times his sole support. Much is expected of you, Queen of Music, for you, too, must endure suffering so that you may gain understanding. To rule wisely, the key to understanding is vital. Compassion and Insight have long been your companions, and you will receive them in far greater measure. When the hour is darkest, seek their counsel."

He looked at them both, in turn. "Guard my words well, Rulers of Music, for you alone hold the key to the mystery. Engrave its message upon the walls of your hearts and treasure it as the choicest silver, the purest gold." He smiled. "And now, we must resume our journey, for haste is crucial and the morning slips beyond day's grasp. Come, and bring the bundle with you." He moved to the passageway to wait for them.

Christine and Erik shared a stunned, wondering look. Words neither collected in her mind to convey an unspoken message to him, nor filtered from her lips to form an audible statement; her heart was too full. Long had she yearned for dreams of a lifetime with Erik to enter reality. To hear confirmation of this from one she suspected must exist in a higher realm set wings of expectation to her heart.

And she would bear his children ... _his children._

Warmth flushed her face at so intimate a thought, while delight elevated her soul. His lips quirked at the corners, his eyes tender, as though he'd read her mind.

"We must go," he said as the light in the room began to diminish. Placing his hands at her waist, Erik helped her to stand then he also rose. Taking the bundle, he pulled away the cloth.

"What does it contain?" Christine asked, finding her voice again.

Two huge golden oranges nestled within the folds, and Christine's mouth watered at the sweet citric aroma. Recalling Erik's misgiving when Malakh gave permission for her to drink the water, she awaited Erik's word. He looked up from the oranges and to their guide, before offering her a simple nod of assent.

She tore away the peel of one of them with delight, relishing the juicy reddish fruit inside, unlike anything she'd ever tasted. "Mmm, it's delicious."

Malakh afforded them a benevolent smile. "I assumed you would be hungry and would want to break the fast. This fruit is a taste of your new home."

"They are from Spain?" Christine opened her eyes wider, hardly daring to believe they were so close to their destination.

"Yes, child."

"You have our gratitude." Erik's voice was quiet, no longer laced with the suspicion and rancor he had used when addressing Malakh yesterday, and for that Christine felt grateful.

At her request, Malakh gave them a few minutes to eat before they again set a course for the other side of the mountain. Throughout their extensive trek along narrow rock passageways, sometimes ascending, sometimes descending in gradual slopes and stairs, Erik remained quiet. He had not uttered a word since they left the cathedral-like room.

Christine cast repeated glances of concern his way. During those occasions when Erik caught her eye, he awarded her with a tender smile, but the remainder of the time he kept silent, his expression blank. Curious to know what dwelled in his thoughts, she wished she could read his mind instead of merely speaking into it.

_Erik . . .?_

_All is well, Christine._

His gentle words eased her tension, and she consoled herself that he would share with her when he was ready. No longer did she harbor qualms that their shared dreams might not come to pass. Now the sole question in her mind was _when_ their aspirations would achieve reality.

Though Malakh told them today's journey would equal the same distance as yesterday's trek, eagerness spurred Christine's steps. Malakh's message replayed in her heart, again and again, and she paid scant attention to time. Before she expected it, a patch of blue colored the distance and their guide came to a halt.

"From this point, you must journey alone," he said.

Surprised, Christine looked at him. "You will come no further?"

"No. This is where we must part. Down this passage and beyond lies the land encompassing your destiny. Spain."

_Spain._ Her heart pounded in excitement as she shared a look with Erik. Here, there would be no more fears of those who hunted him in France locating her Angel and meting out torture, leading to his death. Here, they would know safety.

"We are indebted to you," Erik finally spoke, his hand going to Christine's elbow. He gave a respectful nod, and Malakh inclined his head in similar acknowledgment.

"Remember well all that I have told you, Guardians of Music." His farewell faded with each step they took away from him. "May your life be one of continual favor and blessing."

They had gone several feet when Christine thought of a question and turned, voicing it, "Can you tell us ..." Her words ended in a startled gasp. "Erik!"

He turned to look, while she continued to stare into the endless passage behind them.

No sign of Malakh or the light remained.

Erik took her hand. "Come, Christine." His words were quiet.

"Where did he go?" she whispered in awe, suspecting the answer but still unable to fully grasp that a messenger unknown to their earthly kingdom had presented himself to them and given aid.

"I don't know. Nor do I understand how he recognized truths no other man could have discerned, but in one matter I am now in agreement with you. He was an ally, not an enemy."

Inside her spirit, the glow of hope fanned outward. For Erik to admit trust in another, a stranger, was an immense step for him to make.

They exited the mountain and stopped at the threshold of a country unknown to them, to take in the full extent of their surroundings. The earth bore the lush green of well-watered soil. Thick forests of pines spread in a carpet along gentle hills while diverse trees clustered small valleys. From an almost cloudless sky, sunlight washed the land in a shower of brightness and myriad birds called to one another in song.

Christine smiled. It appeared to be a good land, this, their new home. "At last we are free from those who hunt us, Mon Ange." She squeezed his arm close to her side.

"At last." He repeated the words as if he could not quite grasp them, but gave her a smile of mutual delight.

"Where do we go from here?"

"We will continue south, to _La Feria de Sevilla._"

She eyed him intently. "And if we should happen to reach a village or town before we arrive at Seville and The Festival of Lights?"

He chuckled low in his throat, knowing full well what she waited for him to say. "At the first sign of a commune, we will seek a priest to marry us there."

"Oh, Erik." She pressed her temple against his shoulder. "This journey has seemed endless, but I feel, I _know_, our day for rejoicing is near."

"_Hasta que te encontré, todavía no había vivido,_" he said softly.

She gave a rueful shake of her head. "I fear my knowledge of Spanish is inadequate, despite all you've taught me these past weeks."

His eyes revealed his heart as he drew her close and laid a kiss against her brow. "I said, 'Until there was you, I had not yet lived.'"

**xXx**

**A/N: Thanks for all the wonderful reviews!**

More trivia from Hidden Plot forum

**The masquerade song was a key to solving the puzzle- When they sang "flash of mauve"- the camera focused on a ballet dancer who had a strip of mauve on her skirt. Since all dancers wore only white, black, silver, and gold or a combination thereof, this seemed a hint to look for those colors mentioned in song in clothing during movie. And when you do, all fit certain scenes to "unmask" the characters in their true roles for this deeper story ... i.e.- "Green and black, queen and priest" - Christine was the only one to wear green (and black ribbon) in movie. (Her skirt was a dark forest green in chapel with Raoul.) Raoul was a priest- not in the religious sense, but like an adviser.**

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***The gold phoenix bed cradles a silver seashell- and like Venus (goddess of love and beauty- a ruler - royal)- Christine awakens and rises from the bed minus her stockings (in mythology Venus was born- and arose out of a seashell, naked.) Christine was barefoot, (also a sign in symbolism of humility and honor- such as one would show a king. She had her shoes on in the dressing room, but the moment she took his hand and went through the mirror, they disappeared). Before she fainted, she eagerly watched and listened to all Erik sang to her in MOTN, at times seeming almost like an innocent child. After she rose from the seashell bed, she went straight to him- and the first thing Venus did when she was born and rose from her seashell was to bring love and beauty to those in need of it ... if you put it together with all the symbolism and compare, knowing what the mask meant (cruel ruler) I think she was trying to remove that from him, first touching his face gently. In the companion book screenplay, it says she removes the mask, "Almost like a lover, removing a veil". That doesn't sound like cruel intent (or that Joel Schumacher had that in mind). With the symbolism of Venus, I think she was trying to help Erik - to show love, bring him into the light - not yet realizing who that "shape in the shadows" was (the Phantom spirit - shadow is another word for "Phantom" in dictionary - since Erik had been in strong candlelight and quite visible to her I don't think she meant him.) A "veil," in actual symbolism, means ignorance (though it can also mean protection)- and both of those meanings fit why Erik wore the mask and why she would want to remove it "almost like a lover, removing a veil." (He was then ignorant of the "seething shadows breathing lies" {from Masquerade song} - not realizing he himself was being deceived by the Phantom and his minions, thinking of the Phantom as both his jailer and his only protection. Christine, once she matured in her role, opened his eyes to the truth.**

.

***Above the mirror door, which was Christine's entrance to the King's throne room, there is a carving of an open seashell flanked by two angels. So with the silver seashell bed "under the wings" of the gold Phoenix - (symbolic of Erik- her "Angel" -who, in Notes writes- she is safely under his wing)- and the seashell above mirror - both are symbols of Venus, whom they seem to compare to Christine. There are also seashells in the walls of opera house, and in the preview of movie, when she is kissing Erik, she has what looks like a seashell on her ear ... could be both a symbol to show she is symbolic of Venus- love and beauty- a ruler- so a queen to Erik, and also a clue to "listen" - because there are also many clues in lyrics, sounds, etc.)**

.

***Erik wanted beauty- "Fear can turn to love- you'll learn to see, to find the man behind this monster; this ... repulsive carcass who secretly dreams of beauty, secretly secretly- Oh, Christine" - Venus, was the goddess of love and beauty- so this seems to be saying, he secretly dreams of Christine. She was beauty. Also love ... and as with all movies, this hint of both foreshadowing and conflict in the main character led to an ultimate resolution of his dreams met ... Fear did turn to love for her. And Beauty did learn to see him, the man.**

.

***Madame Giry has a bust of Venus in her room (and she served Christine)**

.

***On the frame with M. Giry's picture as a little girl, which the camera focuses on, on right of frame is a carving of Persephone (Queen of the underworld) standing atop a firebird (another name for a phoenix, reminiscent of Erik, reminiscent of Hades, King of the Underworld, since Erik was king of his own underworld)- and to the side of that is Persephone's mother Demeter, representing Madame Giry (whose picture is in the frame) and like a mother to Christine (she thought of her as a daughter) ... **

.

***This bust of Venus in M. Giry's room is part of a full statue of "Venus Bathing"- a half naked statue that is in every shot of the cemetery where Christine walks singing WYWSHA. No other two statues were alike in all of cemetery (except the twin servants with their right arms clapped over their breasts in homage- a Roman-Greco salute to royalty - both when Christine walked by and one of those statues appears by her father's grave facing the Venus Bathing statue.)- this "Venus Bathing" half naked statue is not only a very strange statue to have in a cemetery, but it is shown in every shot with Christine in the cemetery- and ends up by her father's grave. You can see it behind her as she rushes down the stairs when Erik and Raoul are engaged in the sword fight.**

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***The Phoenix - described as a "holy swan of song" (from H.C. Andersen's poem)- was born from the red rose. The red rose is symbolic of Venus, because roses were first created for her (in mythology.) (Erik sang to Christine- "You alone can make my song take flight..."and he sent her a red rose, thought of her as the rose, etc.**

.

***interpretation of French subtitles of movie (shown on DVD)**

Masquerade! Burning glances, turning heads  
Mascarade! Bourricots et tourterelles  
**Masquerade! Donkeys and turtledoves**

**.**

**In POTO intro and Notes they showed donkeys' behinds crossing in back of the managers (they were the jackasses, fools, ignorant...)**

**Turtledoves, from symbolism website: "Doves were the classic lovebirds, and favorites, too, of Cupid's comely mother, Venus.. ."(another website): "... the power of Venus is drawn by turtle-doves…" (another website): "... it is commonly believed that these birds (turtledoves) cannot live without their mates. Doves are symbols of fidelity and love, because they mate and pair up for life." **

**They show turtledoves in the movie with Erik and Christine - also what looked like white turtledoves were at the top of a golden crown suspended above Erik and Christine's head during the revolve of their kiss. (crown another hint to their royalty as king and queen)**

***The dress Christine wears in Think of Me was a copy of an actual 19th century Austrian Empress's dress- Elisabeth. When comparing the portrait to Christine's gown (which she wore in Hannibal- set in ancient times)- Christine even wears her hair in the same style as the Empress and there are diamond starbursts in it that Empress Elisabeth also wore in the portrait. - With yet another symbolic reference to Christine as a "ruler" or royal- again this seems to show she was a ruler- the "Queen." Erik designed the TOM gown for her (per his doll on his stage). He always treated her as royal, his queen. (even the short distance she rode on the horse, as a queen would ride, not walk, when the way became wide enough for a horse.) The story of the Empress Elisabeth was made into a musical, and it consisted of a love triangle, the players who represented Erik, Christine, and Raoul very similar to the POTO characters and how they acted in movie- and at the end, those characters of the Elisabeth play that represented Erik & Christine ended up together. - oh, and at the Bal Masque - Erik's "Red Death" outfit was an exact copy of one that Emperor Napoleon wore in a painting- again, showing Erik as royalty.**

**And that's just a few of the many, many reasons we believe Christine was Queen of Music for this fantasy... for more on what we found including screencaps/pictures of all the clues above, please visit the Hidden Plot forum, the link to it found in my profile.**

**Again thanks! :)**


	23. A New Danger

**Chapter XXIII**

**xXx**

**.**

Awakened by the slow creak of hinges, Celeste lifted her head from the scratchy hay, well hidden in her corner of the stable. A sliver of murky pre-dawn sky outlined the Vicomte as he moved through the door and approached the stalls containing his magnificent white horses. He greeted both then saddled one, his actions awkward, and Celeste noticed he favored his right hand. She wondered why he'd not alerted the stableman to execute so menial a task, certainly one beneath the rank of a noble, and difficult with a wounded hand.

She felt no remorse for her violent act. At the time, he had posed a threat, one she'd met with swift defense. Because he released her, she now knew she had misjudged his intent, but he must never suspect hers.

Like a silent mouse she hid beneath the hay, watching him finish his task and lead Mephisto by the bridle from the stable. The saddlebags strapped onto the saddle proved his journey would be a lengthy one and confirmed her belief as to his destination.

She waited only until she heard the galloping hooves strike packed earth before hastening to saddle the mare. Saturn turned her head to look at Celeste and whinnied. Quickly, Celeste withdrew from her pocket a lump she'd broken from the sugar loaf when the cook had been busy elsewhere, and presented her offering. Saturn's velvety muzzle brushed Celeste's palm as she took the treat in a delicate nibble, and Celeste stroked Saturn's strong neck. For almost a week, she had formed a bond with the horses as she tended them. Now she hoped that alliance would be enough to work in her favor.

Once she finished buckling the straps of both saddle and harness, she opened the stable door wide, and withdrew her bundle from where she'd hidden it. Using an overturned barrel to help her climb atop the great horse, she wrapped her fingers in its flowing mane and pulled herself up. "Easy, mon ami," she murmured when the horse pranced to the side, unaccustomed to the slight weight of its rider.

Celeste recalled all Marcel taught her, when she'd been a child of nine in the days before war and revolution and death had stolen her happy existence, and took firm hold of the reins, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. A swell of excitement bolstered her spirit at the same time a shred of uncertainty niggled at her mind. Could she ride so great a beast? She had never done so. Marcel's horse had not been so many hands tall and more placid and forgiving of a small girl's blunders. The Vicomte's horses were as powerful in will as they were in form.

Had Papa learned of her riding lessons with her brother in the valley beyond their old farm, Celeste would have felt the sting of her father's strop. Marcel had been disgraced from the family and resorted to the life of a tracker, but Celeste had never ceased to idolize her older brother, who'd visited her in secret whenever he rode into the vicinity. He'd praised her skills, claiming she had a rare affinity with horses, one he'd not seen in grown men, even himself. She had glowed with his coveted praise. Often he brought her simple gifts, wood he had carved into animals or trinkets he filched off some unwary Frenchman. And during one such day, when they enjoyed one tiny sliver of happiness, a bullet in his back had then taken him from her life forever. Papa had later found all of Marcel's sweet trinkets and burned them, seeming not to regret the death of his son but rather being angry with him for it.

With the back of her hand, she swiped at the tears clouding her eyes and set her face like flint, her mind fixed upon her plan. No longer did she possess anything of substance to remind her of Marcel. Just the faded remembrance of his vibrant laugh, the recollection of his teasing manner, and the knowledge of all he'd taught her, both lawful and unlawful. In tribute to her brother's memory, Celeste was determined to rely on this knowledge in her quest to reach Spain.

Hoping her kinship with horses would keep her in good stead, she leaned forward, to whisper in the mare's ear. "Please, Saturn. You're the only one that can help me. I have no one else."

The velvet ears twitched to and fro, then with a subtle toss of her head, Saturn moved forward, obeying Celeste's command.

Once outside, Celeste looked toward Whiterose one last time, knowing she would never again see its stone walls. Her eyes were keen and her breath caught as she discerned a curtain stir in an upper window. In the dim gray light, from this distance, and wrapped in a stolen cloak, she hoped she would be mistaken for the Vicomte.

As an added protective gesture, she tugged her hood lower over her eyes. The course he'd taken was easy to track, and even as she looked, she saw his horse top a distant rise and disappear.

Hunched over Saturn, she whispered in her ear. "Go, mon ami. Travel like the wind."

The mare heeded her command, seeming to sense her fear of discovery, and took off at a gallop. Only when they reached the outside of Whiterose's stone gates, away from curious eyes, did Celeste pull on the reins to ease Saturn's pace. Unwilling the Vicomte should hear and turn to spy her, she fell behind, out of sight, staying close to the trees as she followed.

**xXx**

After an entire day of walking, Christine despaired of them ever reaching a village or town. They traversed endless stretches of valley broken by clusters of forests, eating the fruit off the trees.

Exhausted by nightfall, they found shelter beneath a chestnut tree, and Erik again held her as he had in the mountain, his confident words reinforcing her wavering threads of hope. Held within his soothing embrace, she closed her eyes and soaked up his strength. He sang to her, his melodious voice lulling her to rest until she passed into a sleep so deep, so complete, only his sweet music wafted inside her, wrapping around her, protecting her. The passageways of her mind reverberated with his dulcet notes while into the quiet corridors of her heart his hushed melody found its private dwelling there.

Now, on the second day, the sun had reached its apex in the sky and moved beyond a curtain of gray-tinged cloud as they entered a thick forest. At the trickling sound of water nearby, Erik halted, alert.

"A brook must be near." Relief laced Christine's voice.

"Yes." He smiled. "Come, let us quench our thirst and refill our vessels."

He took her hand and helped her up a short incline. The sound of water running over rocks grew stronger the farther they walked. Abruptly Erik stopped as his eyes made startled contact with those of a young, filthy boy, who huddled behind a thick trunk of an oak, his leg stretched out and bleeding.

In that instant realization of danger, a shot rang through the air.

Christine cried out in alarm, and Erik pushed her to the ground, throwing himself down beside her. Another shot splintered the air from a different direction.

"Are you hurt?" he rasped.

"No." She caught a rapid breath and held it. "What's happening? Oh, Erik – have they found us?"

"No," His eyes went to the boy who watched them with wary regard. "This is different."

Had they been at the opera house, he would have had a trapdoor through which to fall or a partition behind which to escape. He had known every plank, every stone and girder that composed his kingdom, both beneath the floors and above the stage, and he'd built a secret entrance or exit into those rooms during his existence there. Here, solid, unyielding earth and trees with slim trunks offered poor protection against whatever foe opposed them. Again he felt an unwanted powerlessness, reminded of his lack of experience regarding this world outside the opera house and that he harbored only what knowledge he'd learned from books.

Taking quick note of their surroundings, he spied a ledge of rock several feet away, with a recess that could act as protection.

"Christine, listen to me." He heard her raspy breathing, and moved his arm the fraction needed to cover her hand clutched in the soil. Her anxious eyes darted to his. "Ahead is a rock ledge that will shield you. Crawl to it, keeping as low to the ground as you can."

She stared, shock glazing her eyes as if she couldn't comprehend his quiet words.

"Christine!" He grew more insistent. "Do you understand?"

"What will you do?"

"I will do the same beside you." He infused gentle encouragement into his words, and she gave a slight nod, satisfied.

He watched as she began to wriggle her way across the dry soil.

"Lower, Christine. Stay lower to the ground."

Assured she had made herself less of a target, he crawled along beside her, pulling himself along on his elbows, creating what barrier he could between her and danger. Halfway to the stone, an explosion rocked the air, mere feet away. Christine fell flat to the ground, to protect herself, and Erik tensed, his startled gaze rushing past her and to the boy.

Craning his thin upper body around the trunk, the boy, who could have been no more than fourteen, trained a pistol in the direction from which the first shots had volleyed and fired again. He darted a glance in their direction.

"_Corra, Señora! Apresurece!_"

"Run, Christine, hurry!" Erik translated at the same time he pushed himself off the ground and grabbed her around the waist. He half lifted her into a crouch as they raced the short distance for safety.

Another shot exploded from one of the boy's pistols as Christine and Erik dove behind the rock. Christine gulped in heavy gasps of air and let her head fall back against the stone as she worked to catch her breath.

"Are you all right?" Erik asked her.

She gave the slightest of nods.

"What folly is this?" Erik snapped the curt question to the boy in the youngster's native tongue. The tree trunk where he crouched stood no more than several feet away.

"Don Carlos is a wicked man who takes my people and makes us work for him in his orchards," the boy said. "I have escaped his villa and they chase me down, like a fox. They did not shoot until they saw you. I could have escaped them. They are all fools."

Erik sensed the boy withheld more than he told. "And have they just cause to chase you down?" he insisted. "Like a crafty fox, have you taken anything of value to them?"

To Erik's surprise, the boy flashed a smile full of white teeth. "Only this." He lifted his gun and another. "And a box of ammunition."

"Is that all?" Erik asked dryly.

"You do not think I would be so foolish as to leave a dangerous situation without protection, señor?" He motioned to his bloody leg where he had tied a blue scarf to staunch the bleeding. "See what they have done? They are evil men."

"I have only your word that what you say is true. Perhaps it is you who is the evildoer, and have pulled us into a trap. Perhaps the wisest course would be to leave you to the hands of your pursuers."

"What did he say?" Christine whispered during the ensuing lull. "Why are we being shot at?"

Erik related their exchange to Christine, then turned back to address the boy.

Christine clutched his sleeve. "Erik, wait. I sense he speaks the truth."

Confused, he returned his attention to her. Beyond the panic, her eyes gently beseeched him.

"Are you not also a bandit?" the boy asked. "You wear the mask of one."

The explosion of another bullet, this one closer, cut off any reply Erik might have given. Chinks of rock and powder shot up as the bullet found its mark. A second answered from a different direction.

"They will not let you and the señora go," the boy insisted. "They will take her for their pleasure, and they will kill you. I have seen them do this to others."

"How many of them are there?" Erik asked between gritted teeth.

"I do not know, señor, but I count three. They will not leave until they are sure I am dead. I know too many of their secrets."

"Three." Erik studied the trees, taking note of how closely they grew together toward the east, only a short span from the rocks.

Christine's hold tightened around his arm. "What are you thinking? You cannot mean to attack them?"

"What are three men?" He shook her comment off. "They will not suspect my presence, nor will they hear my approach."

"Erik, by all that is sane, listen to me! This isn't the opera house. These surroundings are unfamiliar to you! Please. You promised me you wouldn't do anything foolish."

He laid his hand against her cheek and she grabbed his wrist. "Christine, I have vowed to protect you, and I will not dishonor that vow. A man's word is the value of his worth. Would you have me bear falsehood to it?" His rapid words flowed gentle, while her tears welled strong.

"I don't care! I only want you alive. You don't even have a gun with which to fight them!"

"You must have faith in me, my Precious Rose, that I will do all within my power to keep us both alive." His smile was soft. "Now that we are so close to our destiny as man and wife, do you suppose I would do anything to destroy the chance of its fulfillment?"

She shook her head and opened her mouth as though she would speak, but no words came.

He cradled her head with his hands, leaning in to kiss her brow. "Whatever you hear, Christine, do not come out of hiding." He pulled his jeweled dagger from its sheath. "You must use this if the need presents itself." He placed its handle into her limp hand, and his eyes burned into hers. "I will return to you, my love."

As he shifted his focus to the trees, the boy looked in his direction. Erik sensed his wariness in both expression and by his tight hold on the gun. "I have no use for your weapon," Erik said, before pushing away from the rock and running in a crouch for the trees.

**xXx**

"Give that to me!" Christine cried in Spanish to the boy as a barrage of shots fired at Erik from the direction the boy didn't shoot. He looked at her, as if uncomprehending. "Your other firearm! NOW!" She didn't know all the words to relate them in Spanish, and motioned for the gun, making her desire obvious. His expression dazed, as though helpless to refuse her order, he shoved the firearm on the ground her way. She clamped her hands around the handle and stared at the steel instrument of death.

She possessed little knowledge of how to fire a pistol, having only watched the boy shoot and, in her time at the opera house, only seeing such devices used as props in operas, never as a true weapon. Now a desperate boldness infused her actions as she twisted partially around the rock, cocked the gun, pressed her finger on the trigger, and squeezed off a shot in the direction of the blasts.

The violent impact from the discharge threw her upper body back, wrenching pain through her shoulders, and she scraped one of them against the rough boulder.

She despaired of hitting anything, nor did she intend to maim any living creature. Her sole purpose to bear the gun was to give Erik the cover needed until he disappeared into the thicket. As she had hoped, the shots ceased, and with one swift turn of her head, she saw the back of Erik's cloak disappear.

"God go with you, my love," she whispered. "May the Light surround you and keep you safe."

**xXx**

Like the Shadow he once retained, Erik crept through the trees toward the nearest blasts. At the opera house, he had needed to watch where he stepped in the flies, so as not to give his presence away by a telltale creak of wood. Here, wild grass muffled his steps, though he gave heed to any twigs or undergrowth lying in his path.

His mouth set in a determined line, he clutched one of two weapons he had the skill to use, making a roundabout trek and coming up behind the first of their predators, who crouched behind a tree.

A soldier in a black and gold uniform held his arm outstretched in front of him, his gun aimed. The man's horse stood tied to another tree. It nickered when Erik slipped as close as he dared, as close as he needed, but the next shot the man fired obliterated any remaining sound.

Flames of rage exploded within Erik. How dare this loathsome creature fire upon a defenseless woman, upon _Christine!_

In one deft motion Erik threw the rope. The lasso found its target with sinister precision, and he gave a sharp tug. The enemy dropped his gun, his hands flying to the coarse cording around his neck, clutching it. He hit the ground with a wheezing grunt.

In that crucial moment, Erik teetered on an unseen precipice. A surge of power swelled throughout his being, a rush of weakness exhausted his conscience. Again, he had the supremacy within his hands to extinguish a life with all the ease of snuffing out a candle, to end this miserable excuse for humanity's existence. He clenched his teeth in a terrible smile, breathing faster as the force of the emotion rushed over him in a red-hot wave of fire.

How simple it would be to pull the rope hard, smooth, fast ... how simple ...

An image of Christine's horrified expression when he did the same to the boy that long ago night in his lair flashed across Erik's mind. Shocked at the impact of the bitter memory and the pain it brought with it, he slackened the taut rope and shut his eyes. Desperately, he tried to regain control of his bearing and his breaths.

He was not a monster to be reviled or beaten! Nor was he ensnared to the Phantom's dark devices any longer. He was Erik, a slave to no man or spirit.

Of what composition this "Erik" consisted, he did not yet know, though Malakh's prophecy foretold he would one day uncover the key to the mystery surrounding his existence. But for him, his beloved had left the world she had known and all it contained to dwell by his side. Now for her, he would release the past that he never understood to merit her faith.

With grim indifference, Erik flicked back his cape and walked close to his captive. He stared down at the wretch, who lay on his side, huddled and coughing. Erik recalled the evil the boy had said these men inflicted upon other men, women, and children, and realized that, should they have gotten their hands on his beautiful Christine, they would not have hesitated to violate her in a similar manner.

"You deserve to die," he said, as the man's eyes went wide upon sight of Erik. "But it will not be this day. Nor will it be by my hand."

He knew the right amount of pressure to exert to render a man unconscious, and made quick work of the task. Unfastening the reins from the horse, he then used the tough leather to bind the fiend's hands and feet together. His undertaking accomplished, assured that his foe would not regain consciousness any time soon and shout out a warning to his friends, Erik removed the lasso from around the fool's neck, relieved him of his firearms, and moved toward the next volley of shots.

**xXx**


	24. Tender Revelations

**Chapter XXIV**

**xXx**

**.**

Christine looked with angry dismay at the useless pistol by her boot. She possessed no knowledge of how to reload the weapon, nor did she have the ammunition to attempt it, and the boy kept busy trying to deflect the attack with his own firearm. The little Spanish she attempted to call out, he either misunderstood or ignored.

In her spirit, Christine sensed a strange foreboding, more intense than the obvious trial through which they now struggled, and she knew that somehow this nameless fear linked to Erik. She sensed, even now, he struggled within himself, but she dared not speak into his mind, dared not distract him. To do so could prove fatal if he were in the enemy camp.

She closed her eyes, trying to repel the black hopelessness that worked to strangle her faith, and concentrated on Malakh's foretelling. The prophet, for surely he could be nothing less, had told them to heed his words and to act upon them, so whether they received the promise or not surely must depend upon their own actions.

The terror that she could lose her beloved again crashed through her mind. Christine tried to pray but could find scant words to express the cries of her heart. She tried to trust, as Erik told her she must do, but faith too often wavered into panic. With desperate tenacity she clutched onto hope's fading glow. Her Angel was a genius. He had made foolish and dangerous decisions in the past, yes, but every person at the opera house had done so at one time or another. Moreover, she felt he had reached an epiphany through his experience, starting with that final night in his lair. He would know what to do, he must know what to do!

The faraway sounds of men shouting brought her eyes wide when she recognized Erik's voice, and she gripped the rock, twisting her body around to see, though she could distinguish nothing through the numerous trees. A distant shot cracked ...

And all grew silent.

Christine raised her fist to her mouth to prevent herself from screaming Erik's name. Without understanding her reasoning, she knew that last shot was different. Whoever fired had not aimed at her or the boy.

She darted a panicked glance at the child. He also appeared confused and looked at her. Though neither understood the other's language, they shared one unspoken belief.

_No ..._

Christine broke away from the boy's expression of grim sympathy, laying her head back against the rock. She tried to empty her mind of fear. She must know, could not prevent herself from reaching out to him.

_Erik ... my Angel ... are you alright?_

In the span of the eternity that seemed to pass, an unforgiving lull of harsh silence mocked her ears and heart. She closed her eyes in despair. The teardrops hanging from her lashes fell unheeded, to drip abandoned down her jaw.

She felt numb, lost, barely able to draw breath. Surely, he could not be ... no, he couldn't ... it wasn't possible. She wouldn't let it be possible!

_Erik? Can you hear me?_

This time her query came with more force.

_Christine ... I am coming to you._

Her heart skipped a beat at the trace of sound that unfurled within her mind and joy that he was alive surged inside her heart.

The sudden interruption of horses nickering had her eyes fly open, and relief gave way to horror. As she listened, she realized whoever rode them drew steadily closer. Her heart pounded so hard, its tremors knocked against her throat. Her teeth clenched as her hand tightened around the handle of Erik's dagger, and she waited. She glanced at the boy, a curious panic rising in her as to why he didn't fire at their enemies, now that those men were vulnerable and an open target. A look of awe mixed with disbelief crossed the boy's face as he stared toward the approaching horses. His mouth hung open.

Christine gathered enough courage to peer around the rock. Her own mouth parted in shock, a slow smile lifted her lips, and she gave a happy little sob. Shivers of wondering disbelief rushed through her, propelling her to her feet. She dropped the dagger and raced toward the lone figure of a man leading two horses.

Erik caught her up against him with one arm at the same time she linked both of hers around his waist. "All is well, my love," he assured. "It is finished."

They held each other, eyes closed in thankfulness to be reunited. Christine never wanted to let him go. Her head nestled against its place on his shoulder. She brushed against his arm as she shifted to hold him tighter and heard him give a sharp intake of breath.

Puzzled, she lifted her head to look at his face. "Erik?" He winced in pain and clenched his jaw. Below the mask, his face was pale. She pulled away. "What is wro—" Words failed her and her breath caught as she saw the red that stained his sleeve where his cloak had shifted.

"You're hurt!" she gasped, a sudden weakness making her feel faint.

"It is nothing. A scratch."

Her mouth dry, Christine couldn't speak as she pulled back his cape from his shoulder. Grief ripped through her heart as she saw the stain continue to spread. Blood dripped down his torn sleeve. She fought down her childish fears, struggling for womanly maturity, and worked to keep her voice even. "You must let me tend to this, Erik. Do not refuse me, or there's a chance it could go septic."

A faded smile touched his mouth. "When have I ever been able to refuse you anything, _Ma Bel Ange?_"

The melodic cadence of his voice and the realization that she might never have heard it again moved her, so much so that she cradled his face with her fingers and touched her lips softly to his. Just a brief moment to feel his warmth, to breathe in his scent, to impress upon herself that he was truly alive.

She pulled away, keeping her eyes closed, trying to regain composure.

"Christine." His fingertips as gentle as his voice, he smoothed them along a fresh tear. "It truly is not as bad as it looks."

She forced a smile. "No, of course not."

He studied her a moment longer, then shifted his focus to the rock where they had concealed themselves. His body stiffened against hers. "The boy ..."

"What about him?" Christine looked just as Erik spoke the next words.

"He's gone."

"But ... how?" Christine drew her brows together and turned to Erik, noting the studied look on his face. "His leg was badly hurt."

"Christine, where is the dagger?"

She felt a flush of worry. "I dropped it when I saw you."

Together they returned to the rock, to find his prized weapon had also disappeared. Erik's lips compressed into a thin line as he searched the immediate area. "He could not have gotten far."

"Forgive me, Erik."

His expression gentled, curiosity in his eyes. "What forgiveness would I need to bestow upon so innocent an Angel?"

"I should have been more careful. I shouldn't have left it behind."

"Christine," he smoothed a hand down her hair. "I do not blame you."

Nevertheless, her careless act distressed her. The boy had admitted to stealing the guns. What was one more weapon to him? And one studded in costly rubies certainly would attract a thief. She noticed the red on Erik's sleeve had spread and concern again nudged her, though by all appearances he seemed as hale and strong as ever.

"Your arm needs tending," she quietly reminded.

"The brook is beyond those trees. I can see to it there."

They trekked through the forest, following the languid gurgle of water to a clearing. Shaded by tall trees, the area seemed peaceful, inviting, but Erik stretched out his arm to hold her back when she would have continued. They stood, silent, as he scanned the area with wary regard. At last, assured they were alone, he lowered his arm and led the two horses to water. Christine's jaw dropped. She had been so focused on Erik, ecstatic to see him alive and to be with him again, she had paid scant attention to the horses he led.

"Orion?" she breathed in question, turning to Erik. It had to be. The horse wore the same elaborate saddle and harness.

"Orion." He smiled, and lifted his good arm to pat the black stallion's neck before retrieving from one of the saddlebags a cloth that concealed bread. "One of those fiends had him. I was distracted at seeing my horse again and in that moment, our last foe discovered my presence, but I ducked in time to avoid a worse fate. Orion aided me by giving the man a shove. The fool will not bother us again."

A question on her lips, Christine hesitated. Erik's expression became grave.

"No, Christine, I did not kill them."

She hated to see his smile disappear, hated even more the distant curtain that now seemed to shutter his eyes.

"If you had, you wouldn't have been at fault. You were acting in our defense. There is no reproach in protecting lives."

He gave a brusque nod, though his mind clearly lay elsewhere, and he returned his attention to the brook. "To clean the wound, I will need to remove my shirt. I do not wish to offend your sensibilities. Perhaps it is best if I tended it."

His first words made her mouth go dry. Whatever girlish modesty Christine had learned seemed of little significance at this moment. "Don't be ridiculous, Erik. You cannot possibly tend to it well by yourself. Now, please remove your shirt." She forced a firm tone, though she trembled inside at the prospect of seeing him in such a state, Mon Dieu, of _touching _him.

She couldn't see his eyebrows lift through the bandit-style mask, but knew they did, for his brow arched, and his lips parted a fraction as if surprised by her bold words. She too felt the shock. She seldom spoke to him in such a manner.

Uncertain if she should avert her gaze or turn away, Christine did neither. She told herself she had seen him in such a state of undress before, though it had been in the shadows of evening and moonlight and he'd stood at a distance. She told herself that she had seen glimpses of his chest when his shirt had come unlaced after physical exertion or at the end of an exhausting day. She told herself that soon they would be wed and this was only the first of many occasions she would see him unclothed, which brought to her skin a flush of heat all its own. She told herself many things to help ease her nervousness. None of them relieved the quivering of excitement building inside.

She waited until he gave the barest of nods. Unfastening his cape, he let it slide to the ground. Without pause, he pulled the billowy shirt from his trousers and up over his head, wincing slightly, his focus on his task. Powerless to look away, she drew a lengthy breath.

What the moon had hinted at that night, the sun now revealed to her awed eyes. She had seen men shirtless at the opera, when in costume, but their unconditioned and often flabby forms did not prepare her for the magnificence of Erik. She allowed her gaze to wander over his bare, muscled torso and arms as he tossed the shirt to the ground and again looked at her.

Embarrassed to be caught staring, Christine took his hand and pulled him down to sit in front of her beside the brook. The wound still bled freely, but relief filled her to see only a nick in his flesh, as he'd said, the bullet having edged past his skin. Upon further examination, she noticed it was deeper than she'd thought. Not life threatening, but the wound must be rinsed of the dirt that clung to it and bound. She did know that much, though she lacked nursing skills, relying only on what she'd seen others do when tending a deep cut.

Dousing the cloth in the cool clear stream she then lifted it to his arm. Her outward movements remained slow, gentle, as she blotted the wound. Inwardly her mind whirled on an altogether different course and her heart picked up pace with her thoughts. She rinsed out the cloth with trembling hands and repeated the process. After one final dousing, she tied it around his arm. All the while Christine worked, she labored to keep her breathing even. Seated so close to him, she felt lightheaded, warm, encompassed by the heat of his body alone.

Sunlight had slipped through the trees and made Erik's skin gleam above the bandage. Shyness to be so near him like this warred with an escalating boldness, and Christine experienced a strong desire to touch him.

She slid her fingers tentatively past the knot she had just formed to trace along the hard muscle of his shoulder. His skin was smooth to the touch, like steel encased in warm satin. The feel of it under her fingertips beguiled her, made her want to extend her light touch, to explore further, and with a slow, steady motion she feathered her fingers across his collarbone to the hollow of his throat. He inhaled a quiet, shaky hiss as she did so, though he'd been silent the entire time she tended his wound, and she knew pain had not initiated his response. His pulse raced beneath her fingertips.

She looked up through her lashes, letting her hand remain where it rested. Restrained fire burned within the smoky green depths of his eyes.

Her own pulse quickened, and she caught her breath, dropping her gaze once more and allowing her fingers to continue their longing exploration. Fascinated, she watched the slow downward trek they took, delighting over muscles and ridges of his toned flesh, the sensitive pads of her fingertips brushed by the soft scattering of hair there. She felt his heart beat swiftly, matching the quick rise and fall of his chest, and she slid her fingers up to press all of her hand to his heated skin. His heart pounded beneath her palm. Riveted by the effect she had on him, and he on her, she held still a moment, barely resisting the powerful urge to lower her parted lips to the trail she'd just traced, a flush heating her cheeks at the daring thought. Her caress still feather light, she angled her hand and gaze lower, to his ribs, past them, to the hard plane of his stomach until her fingertips touched his waistband.

His hand covered hers, stopping her.

"Enough."

His soft-spoken command came out more as a plea, and she blinked, raising her eyes to his. Time remained motionless as they sat, staring at one another. Overwhelmed, she further lost herself in the shimmering pools of his mesmerizing eyes.

_I love you, Erik. _The shy words, unspoken, were profound in their simplicity.

His lips edged up slightly at the corners. _You are my heart, Christine. _He lifted her hand still held against him to his mouth and kissed the inside of her curled fingers, closing his eyes.

"We must go," he said aloud after a moment, releasing her hand, composed again. Her own heart still fluttered in a mad, yearning dance. "Those three fools who attacked us likely will not awaken soon, nor have the knowledge to loose themselves from their bonds, but I do not wish to tempt fate."

She knew his words were wise, yet wished not to abandon this moment. But she offered no resistance as he stood then helped her to her feet, using his good arm.

"If the boy has told the truth, a town or village cannot be far," he spoke as he turned his back to Christine, to collect his shirt from the ground.

At the unexpected sight before her, anguished horror gripped her heart. The sunlight laid bare a cruel network of thin, puckered white scars that crisscrossed his well-sculpted form, running from his neck and shoulders and disappearing into the waistband of his trousers.

She clapped the fingers of both hands to her mouth in distress as tears of compassion rose to her eyes.

"Since he is nothing but a thief and who knows what other treacheries he has wrought," Erik continued, heedless of her discovery, "I do not trust his word, but he had to have come from somewhere."

"Angel?"

Upon hearing her choked whisper, he froze in the act of preparing to pull on his shirt, but did not turn around.

**xXx**

The Dowager Comtesse retired to her suite of rooms, restless in spirit, weary in body. She opened the door to her bedchamber, surprising the young English maid who bobbed a quick curtsy, keeping her eyes cast down.

"Beggin' your pardon, me lady."

Helena drew her brows together when she saw the blanket that covered the foot of her trunk in disarray. "What were you doing?" She briskly stepped forward. "Speak, child!"

"I-I was just makin' the bed, mistress."

Helena bunched a portion of the crimson and gold satin counterpane in her hand and raised it to shake it. "This was not on the bed." Her words fell like stones. "You were spying in my things!"

"No, mistress!" The girl backed away, her normally rosy cheeks gone pale. "I knocked it down and picked it back up – honest. I-I'm sorry, I am, I didn't mean t' be so clumsy."

The girl's eyes glistened with fear, and Helena forced a calm she didn't feel. "What is your name?"

"Elsie, mum."

"And how old are you, Elsie?"

"Fifteen this winter."

The girl was little more than a child, much like the youngster Helena had seen in the stables, the boy with the delicate features of a girl. The same boy she had seen ride off after Raoul through her window this morning. She returned her attention to the matter at hand. "Elsie, at Whiterose certain conventions must be followed. I realize you haven't been with us very long, a matter of weeks, so I shall overlook your indiscretion this time. I do not expect a repeat of this incident in the future, do you understand?"

"Aye, milady," she bobbed another curtsy, edging toward the door. "Thank ye, milady."

"You may go."

The little red-haired maid practically bolted from the room, softly closing the door behind her, and Helena allowed her stern demeanor to crumble. She released a weary sigh, her rigid posture folding like a bowed blade of wheat in a harsh wind. Save for her faithless lady's maid of thirty years, and two others, few had seen her in such a vulnerable state. Save for those also trapped in yesterday's offenses, few would. Together they shared secrets that bound them in an unwilling liaison and damned them to eternal flames and brimstone.

Still clutching the satin counterpane, Helena brought it to her bosom and looked at the stark lid of the heavy gilt trunk, uncovered now, a bleak reminder of her insecurities and failures and even scarcer pleasures. In an effort to forget, she had kept it concealed, a futile act since a draped coverlet did nothing to block out the past. Her heart convicted her of her sins daily. As much as she despised the trunk's condemning presence, she had found herself unable to issue the order to have it removed from her room. Raoul was not the only de Chagny to withhold secrets, yet if he were to suspect the mystery she had kept from all but one, he would be appalled. If he were to learn the truth, he would loathe her, but no more than she loathed herself.

She understood her nephew, understood his guilt, because she carried her own grim load. A load that could never be lifted, that had lasted half a lifetime and would haunt her until death, perhaps beyond the grave.

Her eyes never leaving the trunk, she bent to it, sweeping her hand along the ornate lid of fine mahogany. Its cold metal decor chilled her fingers as a snippet of an old gypsy woman's words whispered a memory to her heart.

Swallowing over the sudden tightness in her throat, she went to her vanity and slid open the small drawer, collecting the key from the hidden compartment along the side. She had told herself, "never again," but these past weeks had reopened old wounds, wounds that refused to heal, and she retraced her steps to the trunk. She could not be sure her secret linked to the months-old tragedy in Paris; it seemed impossible. Yet news of that masked ghost had triggered her own hidden phantoms.

The key ground in the lock as she forced it to turn for the first time in twenty-eight years. The hinges moaned a slow creak of protest as she pushed the lid higher, and the musky scent of stale air drifted up to accuse her.

_Whore!_ The vacant silence seemed to cry. _Adulteress!_ _Look upon the pathetic trappings of this small helpless child, now but a ghost. Remember well all you have done!_

She couldn't reckon with the terrible force that compelled her to revisit her specters, nor the fierce weakness in her soul that inflicted such self-punishment. She could only mindlessly obey her tortured heart as she ran withered fingers over forgotten objects, still strangely new and untainted in their mockery. Small suits of clothes; a carved wooden horse, dented from where it had been thrown; a clown puppet, its arms and legs tangled in the strings that wound around it from the crossbar.

Her fingers brushed against a strip of leather cording, and she gulped an unsteady intake of breath, pulling the article from where it lay buried beneath tiny dressing gowns folded with care. She stared at the two holes so pitilessly cut from the stiff cloth.

_Within him will reside a special gift. He will be a child like no other…_

The old gypsy's forgotten words again whispered inside Helena, and she closed her eyes, a tear escaping, feeling as frightened and uncertain as the young foolish girl she'd been. She crushed the small scrap of cloth in her hand, bringing it to her mouth, bowing her head in grief.

One name left her lips. It was all she could utter.

"Erik."

**xXx**

Erik cursed his forgetfulness and stupidity. The sorrow in Christine's whisper alerted him to his carelessness.

"It is of no consequence, a lifetime ago." His words as tense as he felt, he did not turn to face her. Could not bear to look at her.

When she made no reply, he swallowed hard over his pain at the imagined expression of horror upon her face, and released a bitter laugh. "You have made a habit of exposing my ugly secrets to your naive eyes, my dear." He snapped the low, mocking words in defense, though the blame was his own. Certain now he had repulsed her, this scarred and deformed excuse for a man, he released his misery through his damning words. "Feast your eyes upon this carcass, if you dare, if you can stand to witness such revulsion. You've looked beyond the mask to the horror it conceals. Can you bear even more?"

His own heart ached as he recalled her keenness to touch him, so childlike in her innocence, at first, escalating into boldness, igniting within him a mix of both wonder and desire. Would he ever again see that longing in her eyes? He had known it inevitable that she would discover the proof of his past humiliations once they were wed, but had wanted such revelations to occur on his terms, when he had first prepared himself for her reaction. Not like this ...

His muscles wound tight as he heard her draw nearer.

"Does it hurt?" she asked quietly.

Her guileless question, so naive and innocent, triggered a helpless angry chuckle. "I no longer feel the physical pain of the lashes if that is what you allude to, no."

At the touch of her warm hand on his back, Erik jumped, startled. This time she caressed him not out of curiosity mingled with desire, but in comfort laced with tenderness. He closed his eyes, overwhelmed. Her gentle touch upon skin that had heretofore known only the harsh lash of a whip was almost beyond what he could bear. But when her soft lips pressed against the ridged flesh on his shoulder blade, he released a shuddering sigh and bowed his head.

"Chri-stine."

At his broken whisper, she wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek to his back, her body to his, and he felt his defenses crumble. He worked to stop the tears from emerging, tears that he'd buried deep within himself for more than twenty years, and only she had been able to unleash by her tokens of love.

Unmindful of his wishes, the tears crept silently past the mask and down his jaw. He could form no words to speak, even into her mind, as he fought to regain control while she held him.

**x**

How long they stood there, silent, Erik did not know. But soon he became aware that they were no longer alone. Alert to the faint stir of bushes on the fringe of the clearing, he tensed, covering Christine's hands locked around his waist with his own. With the fingers of his other hand, he swiped at the moisture on his face.

"Who spies on us?" he roared. Christine gave a startled jump against him, then pressed closer. "Show yourself!"

He waited, wishing he had put his sword within easy reach, ready to push Christine to the ground and grab it if the need presented itself, to defend her.

"Very well, monsieur," he called. "Perhaps you wish me to come after you?"

At his menacing shout, Christine tightened her hold around him as if she would prevent his retreat. He had no plan of doing any such thing and making her a possible target, but he knew well the skill of intimidation.

Another stir of bushes, and the boy came into view. He struggled to walk, holding onto the tree as he came to a halt, one of the pistols clutched in his other hand and wobbling an aim their way. Erik's mouth tightened in a grim line at the sight of him.

"Give me a horse, and I will not shoot you or your lady," the boy called out.

"No, I will tell you how this will happen," Erik countered. "You will return to me my dagger, and I will let you live." He had no intention of killing anyone, least of all this scarecrow of a boy, but he didn't know that. Erik had experienced few dealings with children. The opera house contained only Meg and Christine, whom he had watched grow up from afar. But he sensed this little thief was wise beyond his years, and would not be easily intimidated.

The boy laughed. "You forget, señor, I have guns and you have nothing."

"The three men I attacked also owned guns, I remind you. Guns which are now in my possession. Dare you take the risk?"

At the steady timbre of Erik's reply, the boy faltered. Erik seized the opportunity. "You know not with whom you are toying, foolish child. I have killed greater men in stature than you and for far less reason." The words tasted sour in his mouth, but he pressed home his advantage, seeing the boy's stance grow even more uncertain. "You are weak and unsteady, unable to keep a firm hold on the gun you now wield. I have a lifetime of experience moving in shadows and with the swiftness and stealth of a cat. I can retrieve my sword and run you through before you take good aim."

"I think you are bluffing, señor."

"The evidence is within sight." Erik waved a hand to the horses before returning his dour gaze to the boy. "Again, I ask, dare you take the risk?"

The boy scowled, reaching behind him to retrieve the dagger, and tossed it toward Erik. It landed in the grass several feet in front of him.

"Thank you, monsieur. Now your gun as well. Both of them." His tone brooked no refusal.

A spiel of muttered Spanish flew from the boy's lips. Erik could barely decipher his words, but he sensed they did not bode him well.

He waited until the boy threw the guns too, though his hands shook so much, his aim was off and they landed far from the dagger.

Assured the boy was sufficiently cowed and would cause no further harm, Erik gently unlocked Christine's fingers from around his middle and moved to pick up his dagger, sheathing it. The guns, he had no use for.

He pulled his shirt over his head and tucked the hem into his trousers.

"Will you leave me alone in this forest to die, señor, with the wolves and the bears to feast upon my flesh?" the boy piteously called.

"You seem to have sufficient knowledge of the resources needed to stay alive." Erik reached down for his cape.

"My leg, it is useless." The boy cried out, his back sliding down the trunk in a dramatic collapse Erik sensed was affected in an effort to gain sympathy. "I am bleeding and can walk no more!"

Christine put a hand to Erik's arm. "What is he saying?"

He related their conversation.

"Mon Ange, we cannot leave him here."

"He might have shot us and left us for dead."

Sympathy glimmered in her brown eyes. "He is but a child, and he's hurt."

"What would you have me do, Christine?" Frustration seeped into his tone. "Take him with us?" Her compassionate nature had set her off from others at the opera house, a trait in her he admired. But at times, like now, her pity only fueled his irritation since he couldn't understand such feelings of mercy.

"Give him the other horse. We don't need it. We have done well with only Orion before this." Her face paled. "And perhaps I should tend to his wound."

"No," his reply was swift, adamant. "I do not trust him. Even though I have stripped him of his weapons, I do not want you near him."

"But he needs help."

He considered her first suggestion and looked back at the boy. "If I give you the horse, where will you go?"

"Back to my people," his reply came quickly. "To warn them."

"Warn them?"

"I have told you, I heard plans I was not meant to hear."

Erik studied the boy, noting apprehension edged his words. "Are there many of you? Do you come from a village?"

Did Erik imagine it or did the boy hesitate?

"Si, señor, a village."

"Very well," he spoke after a moment. "I have reached a decision. I will give you a horse upon which to ride, and in turn, you will take us to your village. Those are my terms."

This time Erik could not mistake the long silence that ensued. "Be quick about your decision," he commanded. "I haven't the day to waste, what remains of it."

When still no answer came, Erik turned away, impatient with the boy's pathetic game and eager to be gone from this place. He filled the vessels to the brim with water, put his hand to the small of Christine's back and led her to Orion.

"Wait!" the boy called out. "Alright. I will take you."

Erik hid a faint smile at his triumph.

**xXx**


	25. Shocking Encounters

**Chapter XXV**

**xXx**

**.**

The weary trio wended through forest and across a sun-drenched valley, through a second outcropping of trees, then through still another valley. For what seemed hours they traveled through intermittent stretches of land met by wood, through sun and shadow, through wind and calm, and in the direction the boy, with angry reluctance, had told them. They stopped only once to rest at a pond and water the horses. Christine knew Erik must be tiring though he did not decrease his pace.

He walked ahead, leading both horses. That he _could _walk so long, after he'd been wounded badly enough that she needed to bind his arm to stop the bleeding, amazed her, and often Christine found her gaze wandering to him in concern. He insisted he walk rather than ride, and she sensed he preferred to distance himself from her after what happened between them. Her own whirlwind of conflicting emotions in the span of less than an hour had brought her to the verge of inner exhaustion. Yet the words he had softly spoken to her before he last helped her onto Orion's saddle, "Soon, Christine, you will be my wife," breathed a whisper of life back into her soul.

She desired marriage to Erik more than she wanted anything else, even more than she longed to fulfill their shared aspirations of her operatic achievements at the opera house. If she'd been given a choice, she would wish Erik behind her on the saddle, with Orion galloping at a mad pace toward the boy's village, instead of this endless plodding trek she endured. But the injured boy could not withstand such a ride, nor did Erik want to overtire the horses. So Christine contented herself with delving into her trunk of treasured moments she had shared with Erik on their journey, allowing them to run unchecked through her mind.

She recalled with shy delight his burning touch upon her skin in past weeks and her touch upon his solid heated flesh. Even the thought made her face flush warm with pleasure. He not only had lit the flame of need deep inside her almost half a year ago at the opera house, showing her how it felt to be a woman, but only he ever possessed the power to fan that flame into an uncontrollable blaze. A blaze she would happily let consume her, until it licked away at all that remained of her girlish innocence, leaving behind nothing but ashes, as her soul and body melded with his. She still didn't understand the entirety of what would happen in the marriage bed, but her palms dampened at the thought of their upcoming union, her bones melting like wax.

The recent memory of her questing touch led to her recollection of what followed, and her heart ached with sorrow at what he suffered as a boy. She had never known or witnessed such cruelty. That someone would inflict such a horrific act upon a child baffled her. What kind of monster would do such a thing? What more heartache had Erik endured? But the question most prevalent in her mind – what kind of mother would reject her own son and subject him to such a tortured existence?

Ever since he had sung to her his pitiable story that final night in the lair, Christine wondered about the woman who'd given birth to him. Later, Christine responded that she hated him and was indifferent to what he had experienced, only later realizing whose hold he'd been under at the time. Yet her words were empty weapons used, fueled by her horrified shock and mounting anger over his brutal treatment of Raoul - words present in her speech, but absent from her heart. She cared for Erik, more than she cared for anyone, and as she had caressed the stripes of his old scars by the brook, she silently vowed she would make him forget. If it took a lifetime, she would invest every breath she had within her to replace the infinite sorrow he had known with the belated happiness due him.

Deep in the forest through which they now journeyed, near a low rock cliff, they passed two oaks that had split and grown from one trunk – the supposed landmark to show they approached the boy's village. Christine grew alert but saw nothing. No houses, no streets, no people. She looked over at the boy, who again lay unconscious and slumped over the neck of the other horse. Erik had tied him to the chestnut mare the first time the boy passed out from pain and slid off his saddle. Any sympathy she felt for the child began to dwindle. Had the boy deceived them and led them into a trap? Erik also must have wondered, for he stopped suddenly, alert.

Before she could question his unease, a horde of dark-haired children emerged from the trees and bushes that enclosed the area. They shouted and raced toward them, some bearing crude weapons. Erik whirled in surprise but before he could grab his sword to fend off their waving sticks, two strapping boys grabbed his injured arm.

Christine watched in a daze of open-mouthed horror as he winced and struggled, knocking one boy to the ground, while a small girl grabbed his other hand and bit it. He snatched his hand away and shook off the other boy who then swung at him with a stick, connecting with his back. Erik tried to fight off the rest of the children, but against so many, some almost as tall as he, he couldn't hope to succeed.

Like one in slumber, unable to awaken from a nightmare, Christine stared. All at once, she felt many hands grab her skirts and arms as other children dragged her from Orion. Her upper arms were gripped so hard she couldn't fight back.

"Leave her be, damn you!" Erik made an attempt to move toward her, only to come to a sudden stop as one of the boys wielded the point of Erik's dagger beneath his chin.

A small boy asked a question in a foreign tongue. The oldest boy with the dagger, appearing a few years younger than Christine, glared back at Erik then answered the child.

Someone wrenched Christine's arms behind her. Erik swore, again ordering them to leave her be. Coarse rope bit into her flesh as her wrists were tied together. A captive at knifepoint, Erik could not prevent them from tying his hands behind him as well.

Someone shoved Christine from behind, forcing her in Erik's direction, and on shaky legs, she hurried to him. He turned his head to look at her, sharp remorse replacing the bitter rage in his eyes.

She wanted to tell him she didn't blame him, but fear tore at her thoughts before they could form words. While she watched, her stomach dropped in horror as a small dirty hand grabbed his mask and jerked it away. At the unexpected action, Erik snarled at the child, his teeth clenched.

The children recoiled from Erik, gasping. Smaller girls buried their faces in their hands.

"Jakhalò!"

"Diniele!"

"Vassavo! Wafodu!"

"Wel Wafodu guero!"

Christine understood none of their fearful words, and frantic, she looked at Erik. Her heart cried in anguish at the grim resignation etched on his face. His eyes sharpened on the faces of the children, as if he struggled with a memory he couldn't quite bring to the surface.

They used their sticks to prod Christine and Erik to walk. Christine bore his pain and humiliation as if they were her own. She tried to reach out to him with her eyes, but he wouldn't look at her. When at last she could form thought, she queried his name into his mind, but he didn't answer.

They trudged before their captors through an expanse of trees, taking two turns before arriving at a miniature clearing, hidden in all directions by tall, thick forest. Painted wagons, enclosed on all four sides, stood scattered among tents. A pile of smooth rocks that contained an extinguished campfire sat in the middle. As they approached, Christine heard Erik hiss, and looked to see him glare at a wagon, his jaw rigid.

From within, an old woman emerged. Her long hair under a blue scarf hung in tight frizzed coils, still almost all black though her lined face testified to advanced years. She wore long, colorful skirts as all the girls did. Golden hoops dangled from her ears, bracelets and rings adorned her arms and fingers.

Christine heard Erik growl one word under his breath, hatred piercing his voice. And with that one word, all her hopes crashed.

"Gypsies."

**xXx**

Madame Giry stood rigid at the window with her arms crossed at her waist, her hands grasping her elbows. Troubled indecision pulled at her mind until she felt she might come unraveled. Rain spattered the glass, a suitable companion to her bleak reflection.

"Mère?"

She let out a wavering breath. "Oui, Margarette, I am coming."

Entering the bedroom, she kept her carriage straight, her expression absent of strain. Her daughter sat up against the pillows, writing on a piece of stationery held against a book and propped against her good leg.

"Would you bring another candle? This one has sputtered almost to nothing."

Madame Giry removed the candleholder with its stub bearing a dim flame.

"Is everything all right?" Meg asked.

Madame turned a sharp glance her way. "Of course." Her tone questioned.

"You called me Margarette. You only do that when you're upset."

Madame Giry masked her expression by turning her back to her daughter. "This revolution; it is nothing. I will return with a new candle." Still, Madame felt Meg's piercing eyes follow her and blew out a sigh of relief once she returned to the narrow corridor. Meg noticed things too well, more so since her injury had confined her to her room. Madame would have to be more careful.

She took a four-branched candelabrum to her daughter and set it on her table. "You need more light by which to see." Curiosity impelled her to add, "To whom are you writing?"

Meg fidgeted, looking at her mother, then back to the paper. "It started as a letter to Christine, but has ended up something of a journal. I record my thoughts on all that is happening in Paris and in my life."

"A worthy endeavor." Madame nodded, pleased that Meg was making good use of her time.

"I just wrote about how Monsieur Durand told me of the healing spas and how I might take the waters once my cast is removed."

Meg's blithe words caused Madame to feel as if she'd been stabbed in the heart.

"He brought me clippings from old newspapers about a spa here in France, there are a great many, did you know? Each of the springs has special powers. Here, let me show you." Excitedly, she reached into a box sitting next to her and sorted through clippings, pulling one out. "This one – _Sérénité les bains – _has the ability to heal bones. The testimonies of those who have been helped are truly astounding."

"Meg ..."

"Monsieur Durand seemed so sure that I might not only walk, but also dance again." Her eyes sparkled. "Just think of it, Mère. That special waters can do that for a person."

Madame swallowed over the painful lump in her throat. It had been a long time since she'd seen Meg so animated, so full of life. Why demolish her frail fantasy with a few words of harsh reality? Let the poor child dream a little longer, she would know soon enough. Silently she again cursed the doctor's fool assistant for filling Meg's mind with unattainable hopes.

Incapable now to bear what for weeks she had yearned to see, Madame excused herself, telling Meg she would soon bring dinner.

Leaden with the weight of her thoughts, Madame moved more slowly than usual, though her posture remained erect, a habit formed by years of dance. She approached her writing desk and her own correspondence.

Madame could never afford the spa's tremendous expense. With wary reluctance, she toyed with the idea to revisit the lair, take any items of value, as her Maestro had granted his permission to do, and sell them. Yet who could pay her the needed money with the Revolution right outside her doorstep? Even if by some remote miracle she were to locate a wealthy collector, the mere idea of journeying back into the morbid depths of the Phantom spirit's home raised gooseflesh on her arms. She had become his mortal enemy. To pull away the planks of the boarded up doors and reenter the condemned opera house would be to put herself at great risk. He could find her; his eyes were everywhere.

She shivered and lifted her hands to rub her crossed arms. As she did, her hand knocked against a thick, beribboned packet of old letters at the edge of the desk, bringing her attention to them. The script on the envelopes had faded to dull brown, the name scrawled atop a whisper of the past that still haunted her memories. With her fingers, she traced the loops of letters written in a perfect, precise hand. _Dominique._ Unexpected tears glazed her eyes and she brushed them away. She moved to the cupboard to pour herself a glass of wine.

For seventeen years, she had tolerated no weakness to think of herself in any manner except as Madame Giry, the name she'd chosen out of a sense of fearful perseverance. When asked her Christian name at the opera house, she had raised her chin and chillingly told her peers they may call her Madame, as her students did. With obvious unease and awkward guffaws, they abandoned the topic.

Only her Maestro knew the truth. Only he had aided her when she'd gone to him, by allowing her and Meg to stay at the ballet dormitories where Madame once lived as a child – this time saving her as she once saved him when she brought him to what would become his kingdom. He, in turn, awarded her a home and a noble position in his realm. During her years of absence from the opera house, he'd taken his place as ruler of his musical kingdom, as she'd always suspected he would do, ever since the night she met him at the gypsy fair and realized he was the embodiment of Music.

Even as a very young man, not fully grown into his role, he had shown his genius. With devout respect and endless gratitude, Madame had knelt before him on the cold stone of his elaborate lair, kissed his hand and pledged her fealty, promising Meg's as well, though Meg had then been an infant. She could still remember the odd mix of both awe and mockery in his intelligent green eyes. She had wondered if this was the first he truly understood his destiny, or perhaps he found it a paradox that she paid him homage when he remained bound in the Phantom's chains, in a place he considered a dungeon, a truth she had not fully understood then. Since that time, Madame served him, honored him, feared him, and loved him as a loyal subject to his throne, bringing up Meg to do the same.

From across the room, she looked at the innocuous stack of envelopes that had the power, even now, to hurt her. Traces of faint, girlish laughter, ghostly in their appearance, beckoned to her mind of those lost days.

She had bound the letters with ribbon and kept them as a reminder of the foolish, naive girl who once entered Paris with stars in her eyes, failing to see the soot and the decadence, the cruelty and the perversion. But more than that, the letters had been the essential discipline she had self-inflicted to keep her will strong.

For years, the letters had drawn her, cursed her, and at times, when her soul grew silent, comforted her. With remembrance both fond and cruel, she'd held fast to them. Now, a slender thread of dubious hope caused her to regard them anew.

Dare she attempt to unlock a door barred to her almost two decades ago? For Meg's sake, to give her the dance again, could she push back the veils that cloaked her girlhood years and seek aid?

She closed her eyes, willing her heart to slow its frantic pace. For her only daughter, all she possessed in the world, she must fight her misgivings and once again step foot into the forgotten life of Dominique.

**xXx**

Erik's eyes narrowed with hatred as he watched the old woman descend the few steps of the wagon. Five of the children ran up to her, each talking over the other, and pointed to Erik and Christine. She questioned the gypsy rats. At their answers, she sent a grave stare in Erik's direction, then turned on the children and yelled at them, lifting her arm as though she might strike. They recoiled from her anger.

"You stupid children! Do you not remember the tales passed down and spoken to you by your fathers? Did you not listen?" She walked a few steps and clamped her bony fingers on one of the older boy's shoulders, shaking him then shoving him brutally to the ground. "Fools!" Her gaze revolved around the circle of shocked faces. "A curse be upon you if you have now cursed our band with your reckless deed!"

Though his wrists were bound, Erik clenched his hands into fists as she approached. Her unflinching black eyes remained on his exposed face. She impassively studied his twisted flesh, then cast an encompassing glance at Christine then the horses beyond, as if to take in everything. The old woman's eyes flinched in surprise to see the boy tied to the chestnut horse. She looked back at Erik. He glared at her. Her thin lips lifted into an assessing smile, before she addressed the children.

"Since you lack the good sense to remember what you should have never forgotten, I will remind you. At the time of the black moon, many years ago, my great-grandmother, the old Drabarni, spoke to our fathers and told us a great evil would befall our tribe, that our only hope of deliverance would lie with the man with half a face who would come to us at the cycle of the half moon. That day is here."

"But he has Jakhalò, the evil eye, Baba Magdelena," the boy who had tied Erik cried. "He is cursed!"

"Silence, Fordel! Do you presume to know more than I?"

The boy cowered in the face of her wrath.

She looked down to his hand. "What is that you hold?"

"The mask he wore to hide his face!"

"Fool," she muttered under her breath. "Untie him, and give him back his mask."

Keeping his expression a careful blank so as not to let her see his shock, Erik felt his dagger slice through the ropes. Once freed, he brought his hands forward, flexing his fingers to relieve them of the stinging pain. "Untie my fiancée as well." He spoke for the first time, his words clipped as he snapped the mask from the boy's hand and retied it around his head.

The old woman straightened her carriage to look at him, standing almost as tall as he did. "So, you speak our language? A Frenchman with the tongue of both Romany and Spain." Her words were meditative, and she gave the order for Christine to be untied.

Erik ignored her comment. He found it alarming how quickly he picked up the despised dialect, their manner of speaking gypsy words mixed with Spanish, how easily he remembered. "How did you suspect we were from France?"

Christine tried to come to him, but one of the older girls held her arms, preventing her. The Drabarni's lips firmed as she impaled the gypsy with a frown of slim tolerance, and jerked her head toward Erik. The girl released Christine. Swiftly she bridged the distance between them and wrapped her arms around his waist, while he covered her with his cape, protecting her with his arm around her shoulders.

The Drabarni lifted her brows at this obvious sign of their affection. Evidently she thought someone with so monstrous a face would have needed to kidnap Christine and hold her against her will. He remembered with bitter shame how he once tried to do that very thing.

"The cut of your clothes is French, as is your accent. I know many things."

"Of course. You are the Drabarni." He didn't bother keeping the harsh mockery out of his voice. "It is a fortuneteller's duty to know all and to see beyond the present, is it not? At least that is what you tell the gadjo, those outsiders not of your tribe."

"You know gypsy ways as well," she said, her words laced with somber surprise.

Erik countered with a terse question. "What do you want with us?"

"In good time. First, we must see to your needs. Lupita!" She addressed the girl who'd held Christine. "If you think you can do a simple task and make tea without bringing down a curse upon our heads, do so and bring it to my tent. _Ava Mansa_." She addressed Erik with a motion of her hand.

He held back, unwilling to go anywhere with her. "Return my dagger to me."

She sighed and looked at the boy next to him, holding out her hand, palm up, in command.

"But, Baba Magdalena—"

"Do you wish a worse evil to befall you, Fordel?"

At her menacing words, he grimaced and slapped the handle of the dagger into the Drabarni's hand. Her shaggy brows rose when she noted the rubies, but she in turn gave it to Erik.

He took it but did not sheathe it. She noticed, a small smile playing about her mouth, which increased his ire.

"Is there anything else you wish?" she asked.

"Release us, and give me my horse."

Her expression did not waver. "We must talk. Fordel, make yourself useful and free Armando from the horse. Melosa, see to his leg." She turned and retraced her steps, this time entering a tent next to her painted wagon.

Christine shared a look with Erik, and he offered a curt nod of reassurance. He did not trust any gypsies, whose lifestyle encouraged every form of deceit, but at present, saw no recourse but to do as the old Drabarni said. Scarred though he was by his hatred, he would not harm children – even gypsy children – unless they hurt Christine. He could trick them, jump on Orion and flee, but he dared not risk placing Christine in peril, in case she wasn't swift enough to follow his lead. She had endured much these past days and he knew she was exhausted. For a time flight seemed elusive, but Erik had been a master of illusion, taking part in many an escape. He would conceive some plan.

Keeping his fingers clenched around his dagger, he lowered his other hand to Christine's waist, holding her close to his side, as they followed the old woman.

Once he stepped into the dim interior of the tent, the overwhelming odor of incense assaulted him. At a round table, a globe of dark crystal sat on a wooden pedestal. Herbs hung from the roof to dry, amulets were suspended along the walls, and books and pottery lay piled on the ground scattered with mats of straw. He clenched his teeth, breathing hard, as the cruel taunts of the past echoed through his mind.

The woman narrowed pensive eyes, watching him. "You have been in a gypsy camp before this. As a child."

"What is it you want?" Erik whipped the words out.

She drew a sharp breath. "Your aid."

"Impossible."

"You have not yet heard my request."

"I refuse to help any gypsy! Least of all a Drabarni!"

She turned to look at Christine. "Tell him if he does not help us, the children will all be killed by a madman," she said in perfect French.

Erik's eyes widened.

The Drabarni cackled a laugh. "Oui, we both have our secrets. I know your language, as well." She looked at Christine again. "Tell him the littler ones will be used as playthings by the great Don Carlos, and when he is finished ravishing their bodies, he will toss them from his bed for his men to have their turn with them."

Christine gasped, her cheeks going ashen.

"Leave her out of this!"

"The children thought you were from Don Carlos," the woman continued swiftly, still speaking to Christine. "They are foolish. They do not always act wisely. When they saw Armando tied to your horse, they thought you killed him. That is why they attacked."

"_Enough, damn you!_" Enraged, Erik advanced and grabbed the woman's arm, raising the edge of his dagger to her throat.

He heard Christine's horrified gasp, but old anguish and new rage blinded Erik to all but the red veil of hatred that now covered his eyes.

The old woman shrunk back from him, though her black eyes remained steady. "You wish to marry your beautiful lady, and make her your Juvali? I am the only one who can help you."

"I need no help from a Drabarni," he spat the words at her.

"No priest in Spain will marry you. The mask you wear marks you as a bandit, and here the people will shoot before they question, or they will throw you in prison. If the priests were to see your face, it is doubtful they would agree to the union. But I can help you."

"We want no heathen ceremony, old woman."

"I know of a priest, in Seville," the Drabarni insisted. "He will do as I ask."

"Why should I believe you speak the truth?" he growled. "Deceit is a tool you gypsies have learned well."

"The fate of my people is at risk. If after the children and I take you there, you feel I have deceived you, you may then slit my throat if you wish."

Her words fell like stones, shattering through his anger, and he released her with a hard push. She fell back against the table.

The Drabarni recovered, straightening. She rubbed her arm where he had gripped her. "But before we take you to Seville, you must help us."

"Never."

"Erik." He felt Christine's hand slide through his arm and pull him back to her. Torn, he glanced at her, while keeping alert to the old witch's movements. Christine's eyes glistened with concern. "Our union must be recognized by the church," she said under her breath so only he could hear. "Anything less would give anyone trying to tear us apart the power to do so. If she speaks the truth, this priest she knows might be our only hope. And Seville is our destination. Let us at least hear what she has to say."

Working to steady his breath, he turned her words over in his head. She had said "anyone," but he knew she meant the blasted Vicomte. She was right, of course, their union must be recognized as a true marriage by all authorities. He wanted no less. He had hoped when those of the holy order recognized that Christine desired a union with him, the presence of his mask wouldn't present a problem, that he could blame a fire or other tragedy as the cause for concealing his face. The Drabarni's mention of bandits now disturbed him. That he lacked a surname also concerned him, though when he shared such misgivings with Christine before their journey, she assured Erik she wished to marry him whether he possessed a family name or not. He had thought to supply a false one, if necessary, but documents could also be arranged ...

He shot a stern glance at the Drabarni. "Speak."

"The law here is corrupt. All work for Don Carlos. He is a powerful man. Our people have always been outcasts, treated worse than dogs. Have you wondered why there are none in our camp but children and a few old women and an old man? One by one, he has taken their fathers and mothers, using them as slaves to work his vineyard, using the women as whores. Those who have tried to escape have been shot."

"Gypsies never stay in one place for a great length of time," Erik said tersely. "Why have you not simply left?"

"The children will go nowhere without their parents. Would you expect them to?"

"And what do you expect from me?"

"I want you to help us free those imprisoned by Don Carlos. I want you to help protect the children."

Erik gave a mocking laugh of disbelief at her ludicrous words. "If you are a true Drabarni, you would know the identity of the one with whom you speak and why that is not possible. I will never take orders from a gypsy! I will never be a gypsy's slave!"

He grabbed Christine's arm, whirling to go.

"Slave? We want to make you our leader!"

The old woman's words cut short his hasty retreat as if she'd thrown a knife in his back. He turned, stunned. The gypsies were exclusive in their traditions, allowing no foreigners into their circle. What trickery did she now have up her sleeve?

"You are not only foolish, Madame, you are insane. I am gadjo, not Romani."

"Si. But you are the one foretold. 'The man with half a face, he shall come to us from the land of the emperor, bearing great wisdom and great strength –'"

"I care not for your fortunes of old!"

"Very well! Go then! And when the first priest you meet contacts the authorities to have you thrown into prison as a bandit, remember the words of the Drabarni! I shudder to think what those evil men will do to one so beautiful as your woman!"

His gaze sliced through her as he advanced a step. "You would spread word to them and put my lady in danger?"

"I told you, none will listen to my words because I am Romani and a Drabarni. They are _chungale mannochendar _– of evil men – who will act first and ask no questions. It is their way."

Erik worked to rein in his temper, for the first time recognizing a morsel of wisdom in the old hag's words, and recalling his own personal encounter with Don Carlos's men.

"If you speak truth, what makes this priest in Seville different from the others? Why would he perform the ceremony when others will not?"

"He will do as I say," she assured. "He is indebted to me, and he will also provide the documents needed," she added, as if she'd earlier read his thoughts.

Erik's jaw clenched. "I must speak with my lady." Without waiting for the Drabarni's reply, he swept out of the tent pulling Christine with him.

At Erik's sudden appearance, a few of the gypsy rats on the fringes looked up from whatever task they were at as though worried.

They had good reason to fear.

Scowling, Erik pulled Christine with him into the trees, away from prying eyes and ears that also might understand their language. Once they were alone, he released her and began to pace. Conflicted thoughts whirled inside his head. To be in a camp of gypsies stirred his hatred, bringing to mind the vague memories of the early years he endured under more than one Romani's torture. Forged on the breath of their fiery intimidation and lies, Erik had counted himself unworthy of all but darkness and chains.

Christine stood silent, patient in the wake of Erik's restless tension. He whirled suddenly to face her. "You want me to help them, don't you?"

She flinched at his verbal attack, though her eyes remained calm. "I will not lie to you. The thought of what she said this Don Carlos will do to the children grieves me. I do not wish to see them killed or to suffer, no matter their mischief against us."

"Mischief," Erik mocked and continued to pace, flicking his cloak back with barely suppressed irritation. "The lashes on my back – you must know at this point by whose hand they were delivered. A _gypsy, _Christine." He spat the word as if it were poison to his tongue and came to a swift halt. "I was kept in a cage, in a gypsies traveling carnival for years. Fed little, beaten much. A beast – the Devil's Child, they called me. I killed my jailer and escaped when I was a boy. Afraid and alone, I sank to the lowest dungeon I could find, in the depths of the opera house. Those years with the gypsies ate like acid into my soul. How can you ask me to _help_ them now?"

She moved toward him, taking his large hands in her small ones. "Were these gypsies the ones who did that to you?" Shock filled her voice.

"I don't think so, no. I don't know. There are many bands of gypsies throughout Spain and France. Nonetheless, they are _gypsies_, Christine!"

Her face revealed her heartache for his suffering while her eyes looked into his without condemnation. "The children were not yet born when those vile acts were inflicted upon you, my Angel. In that regard, they are innocent and should not be held accountable for one beast's transgressions. He was the beast, not you. Yet the decision must be yours alone. Whatever choice you make, I will support you. But I admit I'm also troubled by what the woman said about us locating a priest who will disregard your mask and perform the ceremony."

"Curse her, the evil witch!" At his harsh exclamation, she jumped, and Erik forced himself to calm. "Forgive me, Christine. I find myself at a crossroads, unable to discern if she deceives us or tells the truth. If it is the latter, dare I take the risk? If it is the former, I would gladly slit her throat as she suggested, if not for the vow I made never to murder another."

"You made such a vow?"

Her soft, wondering smile helped to quiet his soul and his voice. She had always had such an effect on him, often able to leash his anger with no more than a look, a touch, a kiss.

"After you left me that night in the lair, I shattered the Phantom's hold over me and sought refuge in a secret passage. Meg found me and brought my mask, telling me she would return to advise me of when the mob had dispersed and it was again safe. As I waited I dwelt on all that happened, despising myself for the destruction I'd wrought, knowing I could not continue as I had. After you presented me with your ring and your silent pledge, after you sang of your sweet love to me, asking me to leave the darkness and join you, I swore then I would do all within my power to make myself worthy of you, Christine, to deserve such precious love. You sacrificed everything to free me, to be with me, and I will do no less."

Her smile bloomed, more beautiful than any rose. Upon seeing her shining eyes and their unspoken message, after hearing his own words of conviction, the knowledge of what he must do came clear. Perhaps the most difficult feat he had yet undertaken, even taking into account his days as the Opera Ghost.

Erik took in a slow, deep breath and expelled it. With it, he forced himself to release the remnants of fresh anger. He lifted her hands, still holding his, and slowly kissed each of them in turn. "I would do anything in my power to be with you for all eternity, Christine, to make you my wife, to fulfill all our dreams." His voice came hushed. "Anything."

The Drabarni stood outside her tent as if she had been awaiting their return. His expression grim, Erik approached, holding Christine close to his side.

"_First, _you and your band will take us to Seville and find this priest of whom you speak, so that my lady and I may wed." He took a deep breath, forcing the difficult words to surface. "After that, I will lend the children my aid."

He felt Christine's arm tighten around him and knew she was pleased with his answer.

The Drabarni stared, as if her black eyes could reach down to his very soul. He looked back at her, unflinching.

"How do I know you will not withdraw once I help you?"

"Have you such little faith in your own prophetic legends?" he mocked. "I give you my word, and I do not take my oaths lightly." He knew this would help to convince her. An oath or a curse to a gypsy was their way of life.

She gave a curt nod. "If we leave on the morrow, we will arrive in time for _La Feria de Sevilla. _This is good. The children need to laugh again and to hear the music so long absent from their lives."

"The Festival of Lights," Christine breathed, turning to him. "Erik! We will have made it in time."

He looked at her, his own happiness returning as he noted the sparkle of excitement in her eyes. He returned her tender smile with one of his own, then again looked at the old woman.

"We will stay in Seville throughout the entire week of the celebration. Once it has ended, we will return to this place and form a plan."

The Drabarni nodded. "I will tell the children to begin packing the wagons."

Once she left and they were alone, Christine looked up at him, her face glowing.

"You are pleased with my decision."

"I never doubted you."

Confusion made him gather his brows together. "How can you say that? After what I told you."

"While you were chained to the Phantom, you may have killed, but the heart of a murderer doesn't reside in you, Erik. You would never allow harm to come to a child, any child. True beauty dwells inside your soul. I recognized it the first time you sang to me, even at the tender age of seven." Her hand moved to cup the scarred side of his face, hidden beneath the mask. "You protected me, you reached out to me. When no one else would listen to my fears, when all at the opera house failed to see past my invisible mask that hid my heartache and loneliness, you were there. You alone understood me. Even throughout those months when the Phantom tried to take over your kingdom, I recognized the beauty of who you are." Her eyes grew sad. "For a time I turned away from you, because of my confusion and his darkness. But I came to realize that once you were freed of him and his lies, the wondrous truth of who you are would surface. And I'm seeing more of that every day."

He stared at her, amazed. How had she seen what he himself could not? She had looked beyond the horror of his twisted face, seeing past the scars to the chains that had bound his reasoning, to the jailer who deceived his mind. She had recognized what no one else tried to understand. And in her longing to free him, to be one with him, somehow she had discovered what consisted of the lost man behind the menace and opened his blind eyes to the colors, faded and quiet, but still existent within him. Not locked away in a music box.

He had molded her into a part of who he was, in both his desire to make her his own and her longing to become music, and she reflected to him the image of all that he could be.

She slid her other arm around his waist, laying her head against his shoulder. He buried a kiss in her hair and closed his eyes. Even his black hatred of gypsies paled in the light of his deep love for his future bride.

For her, he would somehow bring forth the colors again.

**xXx**


	26. The Phoenix and The Rose

**Chapter XXVI**

**xXx**

.

The streets of Seville exploded with gaiety, as young and old celebrated the opening night of La Feria de Sevilla. Located on the banks of the legendary Guadalquivir River, the city sparkled its enchantment, alluring all within to taste of its delights. Far and wide, flames from candles and lanterns emitted their continuous glow throughout many streets and upon pale stone buildings that boasted elegant domes and stately minarets, Moorish in architecture. Reminiscent of thousands upon thousands of fiery stars and beacons in the velvet indigo night, the flames gave off strong light by which to see.

The spirit of jubilee rang throughout the streets as the smallest children laughed and played under many a watchful madres' eyes, and old men drank the pale gold Manzanilla wine, while boasting to each other of their great life achievements. In this city, famed for its music and dance, revelers laid claim to every available space and pitched colorful tents in what would become their home for the weeklong celebration. Earlier that afternoon, fine Andalusian horses bedecked in elaborate saddle and harness pranced throughout the crowded streets in glorious parade, bearing their proud masters. And in the district that held the bullfights, people had streamed in hordes to watch with terrified excitement their favorite toreadors sweep their red capes in fearless displays of courage and skill.

In another corner of Seville, a celebration of a different nature would soon occur outside the doors of an ancient cathedral, where earlier a legal ceremony had bound two lovers, uniting them as one in the eyes of God. Now, a second ceremony was about to unfold, no less significant or joyous than the first, this bonding unique, an unwritten and unrehearsed exchange of vows forever entwining two hearts and souls in unity. A phenomenon never before seen or experienced in the streets of Seville, the much talked about event drew the curious from surrounding areas of the Carnival to witness such a spectacle.

Near the cathedral, bands of gypsies in colorful costume strummed guitars, clicked castanets, and played violins while proud young men and women in exotic costume danced sevillanas to the passionate rhythm of the music. Yet it was not this that caught many an onlookers' eye, but rather the sudden appearance of the tall, masked man who stood, statuesque, above the crowd at the top of a curved stairwell. Replete in Spanish costume of a broad-brimmed ebony hat, ruffed white shirt, red cummerbund, and short riding jacket that matched form-fitting black trousers and boots, he stood proud, his bearing that of a Spanish monarch, a king. Magnificent. Commanding. His black mask gave him an air of mystery, and many a woman, young and old, cast an awestruck glance his way.

Opposite him on another stairwell, a beautiful lady took her place, just as tall, her stance tranquil, confident. She wore an elaborate dress of flounced white silk shot with iridescent thread, which glistened as if moonlight lay captured within its folds. A fiery red rose in full bloom rested above her left ear, and her dark curls glistened in the candlelight, trailing in wild abandon to her waist. Many were the men who gave her a wistful glance, but she had eyes only for the man in the mask, as he did for her. The two lovers stared across the wide clearing at one another as though they inhabited their own private world and no one else in Seville existed.

As if by previous arrangement, the notes of the musicians' instruments faded into a whisper of sound before disappearing altogether. The dancers grew still, and much of the crowd fell silent as all eyes fastened on the striking couple.

"_Angel of Music, my love, my passion, come to me, dear Angel,_" the masked man sang in a rich, clear tenor that brought an instant hush throughout the rest of the crowd.

"_Angel of Music, my sole desire, I yearn for you, sweet Angel,_" the woman answered in a beautiful soprano, just as soft, just as stirring.

"_I am your Angel of Music ..._"

"_As I forevermore am yours!_"

The people stared, spellbound. None moved for fear of breaking the enchanted moment.

From opposite ends, the couple began a slow procession toward one another down the short stairwells and along a cleared path rimmed by lanterns and carpeted with red and white rose petals. From above, more petals floated downward, a fragrant and steady shower of blossoms that surrounded the two lovers in a velvet kiss. The couple moved with graceful purpose, their eyes never wavering from one another. A soft radiance lit their countenances, having little to do with the myriad lamps lighting their path. From the moment they began to walk, the song of Music gilded the night, and everyone held a collective breath as the couple continued to sing:

_"Destiny chose us to be together  
Love decreed it was so  
No matter if we ascend  
To the heights of the heavens  
Or venture to the earth far below  
Together we'll soar  
Wreathed in passion's bright flame  
To a world where there is no more night—"_

_"My soul is yours alone"_

_"My heart is yours to claim"_

_"You are my chosen delight!"_

_"Erik, my King …"_

_"Christine, my Queen …"_

_"Nothing shall part us evermore  
Through darkness and pain  
Our love has overcome  
Light streams beyond joy's hidden door –  
Sweet ecstasy's gold we shall now treasure  
In this our own paradise  
To have and to hold  
Now and forever—"_

_"I as your husband …"_

_"I as your wife …"_

Meeting beneath an arch of red roses in the center of the path, they joined hands.

_"Music bound us, love renewed us, hope set our souls free,  
To cherish each other for all of one lifetime  
This day we hold the victory!"_

The crowd gasped as the two reached a glorious crescendo that shook the very heavens.  
More quietly they sang:

_"Christine, my Queen …"_

_"Erik, my King …"_

_"You are my heart and my song  
Our rose will not fade  
For love's timeless bloom  
Binds us and keeps us ever strong"_

_"Erik, my King …"_

_"Christine, my Queen …"_

_"How much love do you require?  
I give you my all, spirit, body, and soul,  
You are my only desire"_

As the two lovers continued to stare deeply into one another's eyes, their words came softer, slower …

_"Christine, my Queen …"_

_"Erik, my King …"_

_"This vow, this night I give to you,  
Forevermore, I will honor, trust, and adore  
Forevermore ... I will love ... you …"_

As they sang the last, they drew closer. Their words blended into the night in sweet accord, the final notes lingering over the air, faint as sparkling mist. He lowered his head while she lifted her face to his, and they met in a tender kiss, sealing their promise to one another.

For all of one lifetime, for all of one eternity.

The gypsy children that came to Seville with the masked man and his lady stared in awe. The beauty of the music watered their parched hearts, washing away the debris of fear and grief like a soft summer rain. Never had such a sweet blend of voices so soothed them, melodic tones comparable to the angels, as they had called themselves. Never had they been so shaken by the revelation that now stunned their minds.

For they realized, they might have made this masked man leader of their tribe in accordance with the Drabarni's old prophetic legend. But he was a true King of a different realm, and his lady, a true Queen. Deep in their hearts, a kernel of truth sprouted, and they knew they had just witnessed the incarnation of Music.

**xXx**

Erik kept his hands at Christine's small waist, barely conscious of the fierce applause shattering the air around them. For him, only she existed; nor did she look away from his eyes. She glowed with happiness, her eyes lit like shimmering windows that framed twin candles. Her face sparkled, as did her smile, her skin appearing illuminated from within by flecks of light. He had never seen her more radiant, more beautiful, more beautiful than any other woman he had known. This woman … this angel … his wife.

_His wife._

Erik could barely grasp the words, hardly dared believe them, not since the priest first spoke them in a quiet and private ritual scant minutes ago, legally binding them in spirit. Nor could he grasp them now, in this their musical ceremony, a revelation to each other in the sight of all present the tender vows of their hearts. He stared at her in mute amazement. His body felt weightless, as if he might exist in a fantasy, a dream. Was she real? Was this moment, this day, real?

Her hand lifted to his face, her touch a warm brand of reality on his cheek.

_My husband_, she said into his mind in wonder, as though she had heard his thoughts and experienced the same disbelieving awe.

He smiled, the word new, strange, wonderful to him, and he mused if this sensation that sunlight had burst inside him and flooded his every pore was what bliss felt like.

_My wife …_

He lowered his head to take her parted lips in another kiss, but before they could make contact, he felt the sleeve of his jacket pulled in a series of sharp tugs.

Curious as to who would dare intrude, he looked over his shoulder, then down. A tiny gypsy girl, possibly twelve, looked up at him with huge dark eyes.

"Please, señor," she said, her voice trembling as if she feared him, "will you and your Juvali sing for us again? And play?" She held up a battered violin to him.

Erik stared at the skinny waif, his brows drawn together in confusion. He had not touched a violin since he left the opera house. No one but Christine knew he played. How had the child known …

"She recognizes you," Christine said from beside him, her voice soft, pleased. "They all do."

Rendered speechless, Erik looked amid the throng, most of who had returned to their festivities, to see the gypsy children that had accompanied them to Seville. Many stood as if frozen and stared at him, the silent distrust and bitter loathing they'd barely kept in check during their week's journey now absent from their features. In place of those feelings existed the appearance of stunned revelation and deferential fear.

Christine laid her hand against his shoulder. "Go on, my love. We have the best reason to celebrate."

He looked at her. "Sing for me?"

"Always."

He touched his fingers to her cheek, brushing his thumb along her parted smile. They shared a tender look, before he moved to accept the offered violin.

The instrument was old, the wood chipped. He tested the strings to tune them, then drew the bow across, producing a haunting note of beauty that made all in the near vicinity stop what they were doing to listen. He continued with the song he'd taught Christine in one of her later lessons at the opera house, and as he hoped, she opened her lips, letting the silver tones of her voice ring clear through the night.

Everyone in the street stilled and turned to watch, many drawing closer. Unaccustomed to such forthright appraisal, Erik focused on Christine, admiring the unparalleled beauty of her voice. Tonight it carried a quality he'd never before heard, rich and full, yes, but with a glow behind it. Radiant. Serene and confident. He once told her she had much still to learn, and it seemed she had excelled. As her adoring eyes turned to him, he almost missed a note, something he'd never before done. Now he could name the new quality: she sang like a woman in love, emotion stirring the joyous notes deep from within her heart. Astonished to be the recipient of such love, even now, Erik wondered if his mind would ever accept what his heart now realized, what she'd proven to him.

Their song ended and without being asked, they moved into another, both captured by the rare opportunity to express the music they cherished to an audience who longed to experience it. The crowd thickened as more people came from neighboring streets to listen and watch, having heard the faint silver tones of Music beckon. Andalusian gypsies filled all of Seville, but on such a magnificent occasion as this, even their presence could not steal the joy of this night from Erik. Nor had his mask provoked disturbing questions, since everyone assumed it to be part of his festival costume. Others, also, wore masks.

When presented with additional instruments to play by eager observers, Erik acquiesced. Some were novel to him, but once he touched their taut strings, they obeyed his every command, producing exquisite notes that raced, caressed, and trembled through the night air while the onlookers watched, mesmerized.

The celebration lingered on, Christine pulling Erik deeper into the merriment, urging him to become one with the crowd. At one time he might have retreated to the shadows to watch, but tonight he experienced a confidence never felt among so many, and he moved with Christine into the bright candlelight of the gala, the other revelers eagerly welcoming them into their circles. They drank sherry wine and feasted on sugared cakes. Together they sang to the mysterious strumming of Spanish guitars and the beguiling reverberations of violins. Christine moved with fluid grace in the sultry Latin dances, fascinating Erik, and at one point, he tore off his hat and jacket to join her.

The song ended; another began. The haunting strains, rich and alluring, wove their spell around them, inviting them to feel the rhythm, to partake in the deep mysteries of the dance. They stood silent and stared at one another, as the evocative notes unfurled within them. He stepped back and in one deft move stretched out his hand to her. Christine took it, and Erik pulled her to him fast, spinning her into his embrace. They stared at each other, motionless, before beginning the languorous, sensual dance in expert accord. Erik had no need to learn the steps - the music, the passion, ran deep within his blood, the very core and expression of his identity. The others stopped dancing to watch and clap their hands in rhythmic staccato, first slowly, then faster, as the throbbing beats increased and pulsated, urging the couple on.

Oblivious to all else but the rousing music and Christine, Erik continued to stare into her eyes that had darkened with desire. His own need for her escalated with each erotic brush of her body against his as she danced around him, evading and enticing his pursuit … each tight clasp of her waist as he again hauled her close and her silken hair grazed his chest where his shirt now gaped open. The song intensified, their dance, their music sending a blaze of heat sizzling through the night.

Erik pulled Christine spinning against him in hard embrace one final time and felt the tremors race along her body. She kicked up one slender leg next to his hip, which he caught beneath bended knee, hauling her close. Her leg wrapped around him as he slid his hand high beneath her ruffled skirts to grip her warm, bare thigh. She flung herself back in a supple fall and he grasped her hard about the waist, leaning in to her, then in one rapid movement brought them both upright. Her arms flew about his neck, her eyes heavy lidded and velvet dark staring into his, inches away.

The seconds electrified as the chords strummed to a dizzying height while they stood motionless, bodies pressed together, faces flushed, breathing fast.

Erik forgot the dance, forgot the people watching and crushed Christine to him, kissing her with a vehemence she returned. They tasted deeply of each other, their tongues engaged in a private dance of passion while she gripped the back of his head, trying to pull him even closer, moving her warm, soft body more tightly against his.

The guitar gave five final rapid strums and loud applause shattered the air. Some laughed in good-natured amusement, a few cheering them on in a different manner. Recalling where they were, Erik broke their kiss and released his firm grip on her leg. Christine's smile turned shy as she dropped her tight hold from around him and took a small step backward. Grateful that she didn't understand the language to recognize what the uncouth men called out, Erik still knew she must have understood their message.

From out of nowhere, the Drabarni appeared. She had been absent since before their wedding and Erik assumed she had worked her trade and found more than one hapless victim to relieve of coins for a fortune told.

"Come, it is time," she said in French, taking Christine's arm.

His mind still reeling, his breathing rapid, Erik took a moment to respond. "Where do you think you're taking her?"

"To prepare your Queen for your wedding night," the Drabarni shot back. "I assume you approve?"

Her amused reply stunned him, both the brash words she used and their full meaning. He felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach, removing the remainder of oxygen from his lungs.

"Another part of the prophetic legend," she said, still speaking in French, "was that the man with half a face would possess both a realm known and hidden. Tonight I have seen who you are. Now, if I may take your bride and prepare her for your union? Before both of you give the children a performance that involves much more than your captivating music and dance."

At her blunt words, Erik felt the same heat that crept over Christine's face, flushing it rosier than before. Suddenly mute, he could offer only a curt nod while he fought for composure. He gave Christine a look that tried to reassure before the Drabarni pulled her away. They could not understand, any of these merrymakers, how much he and Christine had endured to arrive to this moment, how monumental an occasion this was for them. And the knowledge that soon their final ceremony of love would commence, when they would share the expression of their vows, uniting them in body, did not help to steady Erik's breathing.

He closed his eyes, still hardly daring to believe this night had finally arrived.

_Soon, My Passionate Rose, soon ..._

**xXx**


	27. Forever Yours

**To those wondering why another chapter has suddenly appeared - I revised this story, and split up the original last chapter. The wedding and celebration is in the chapter before this. I have added a lot more to the end of this final chapter since the story is no longer T rated (and I have never been that happy glossing over the long-awaited moment drawn out through entire book, because I had to keep it so mild. It is now explicit.) Again, a warning to those who read this as T-rated. This is now rated M and this chapter is one of the reasons.**

**.**

****Chapter XXVII****

**.**

Swept away by the enthralling excitement of Erik, Christine had forgotten all else but him in their erotic dance and impassioned kiss. Now, alone in what would become their tent, with two of the older gypsy girls and the Drabarni attending her, Christine shivered from his absence and the chill of the air upon her skin. She tried to concentrate instead on the warm parting promise Erik whispered into her mind, of the memory of his skilled hands branding her flesh and his heated mouth claiming hers.

The gypsies had removed the beautiful wedding dress Erik purchased for her, she assumed by trading rubies from his dagger. The Drabarni brushed aside all of Christine's faint objections, ordering the girls to continue in their assistance, and against their strong hands Christine could do little but endure their actions. Unaccustomed to being waited on in such a manner, she shivered as they stripped her down to nothing and sponged her skin with water combined with aromatic oils, then perfumed her hair.

She blushed anew when the Drabarni surveyed her as if inspecting a horse. "Such a tiny thing, you are! Barely enough of you for your King to hold on to." When Christine lowered her gaze to the ground in sudden concern, the Drabarni added, "Pah! Do not listen to this old woman, child. He had a good hold on you in the dance, si?" She cackled a laugh. "I think you will please him well."

The burn of embarrassment had not left Christine's face or body throughout the entire time they dressed her and combed out her hair.

Now alone, Christine swallowed over the sudden thickness in her throat and touched the fragile lace edging the low-cut gown. The sheer silk, no more than a whisper of moonlight, revealed the shadowy outline of her form. A tiny embroidered red rose rested at the point of her cleavage. She recalled with a tremulous smile the single roses he'd sent to announce a secret rendezvous between them. During their journey, even before that, she experienced no hesitation to show her desire for him, and only moments ago, her dance had been provocative before she'd thrown herself into his strong arms, forgetting all else existed but them. Now, a strange sort of anxious exhilaration made her palms damp and her shallow breaths as tattered as her nerves.

On the eve of a wedding, a mother often advised a daughter. Yet Christine had no mother to tell her of what to anticipate. Only her imagination fueled her ideas, fed by her Angel when they lived at the opera house, and the few passionate moments they shared on their journey. While those experiences taught her more than she'd known before leaving Paris, she still knew next to nothing, and she certainly never asked the Drabarni, uncertain of what gauche replies the brash woman might give.

In the glow of five candles, Christine stared at the hanging silk tapestries of ruby and emerald that encircled the marriage bed of pillows, then lowered her gaze. Numerous petals of crimson lay scattered across their satin contours. The warm air stirred, heady with the scent of similar roses upon her skin.

How long had she yearned for this moment, dreamt of it? She loved Erik desperately, but alone and faced with the vagueness of what this night would hold, an unwelcome thread of unease twined around her heart. She felt every inch the virginal girl and little like a mature woman. Closing her eyes, she breathed in deeply, searching for calm.

In the distance, the musicians began a sweet, haunting melody that wafted around her. She tried to let herself float with the music as she'd always done with her Angel's majestic compositions and superlative voice, to become one with the sweet notes, but her body felt as tight and ready to snap as an over-wound string on a violin. At the sound of a footfall she turned suddenly and watched as the tent flap parted. Erik stooped low to enter, then straightened, letting the crimson and emerald striped canvas fall shut behind him.

The air electric, they stood and stared at one another, neither moving.

Christine broke from his steady gaze to lower her eyes to his unlaced shirt gaping open almost to the waist from their wild, seductive dance of earlier. She studied the sheen of his powerful chest with its soft dusting of dark hair … the red cummerbund circling his trim torso … his long, lean, muscled legs in the close-fitting black trousers and leather boots.

Heat seeped through her veins and she inhaled a ragged breath.

This man was no king. He was a god, sculpted to perfection. Apollo, Mars, and Jupiter combined.

"Christine?"

Her gaze swept rapidly up to his. How could one feel so incredibly nervous and wholly desiring at the same moment?

Behind the bandit mask, his smoky green eyes simmered with a look she'd caught flashes of during their journey and earlier in their dance. Now, they held a steady burn that threatened to consume her. Breathless, she watched him tread toward her with all the sensual grace of an untamed wildcat.

"Christine, there's no reason to fear."

"I don't ... fear you." Her voice came, trembling, a mere wisp of air. She tore her gaze from his, keeping it fixed to one glistening spot of his chest as he drew closer.

Several tense seconds elapsed once he came to stand before her. Again, neither of them moved.

"_Christine …Christine …_" he whispered in song.

Slowly, she brought her eyes up to his.

He rested his warm hands on her bare shoulders, his touch light as gossamer. His harmonious voice lifted in accompaniment to the violins, in a melody both soothing and seductive ...

"_At last, comes the hour for which destiny dreamt … Let Music fill you and thrill you …With rapture sweet, turbulent …_" While he sang, he brushed his fingertips down her arms in a slow caress and retraced their gradual path. A shiver of pleasure whispered through her as his sweet music and silken touch both calmed her nerves and stirred her senses.

"_Our eternal song has begun, one of sweetness and fire …" _With his words, his fingertips grazed the sensitive skin behind her ears. "… _to new heights shall I take you_ …" Her breath caught as his touch trailed down both sides of her neck and beyond. _"…Evermore love's desire …"_ As he sang the last, he gently slid one hand from above her breast to just beneath it while stepping behind her to hold her against the length of his hard muscled body, much as he'd done that long-ago night on the bridge. Her knees went weak, so that she could barely stand, and she melted into him. His heartbeats raced against her, as swift as her own. Through the whisper of material that veiled her, his touch burned her skin.

"_No more to stand apart, forever two combined … Music, my Music, I am yours, you are mine …_"

He pressed his mouth to her neck, sliding his caress to the curve of her shoulder. The heat of his lips, the gentle flick of his tongue, almost became her undoing. Her eyes closed as her spirit soared and she willingly sank with him into their coveted paradise of sweet fire.

"_Sweet Music, I call you … come to me, complete me,"_ he sang near her ear, sweeping his other hand across her body in a languid, intimate caress extending from waist to trembling thigh. "_Sweet Music, my chosen Queen … Passion's Rose finally freed …"_

Powerless to hold back any longer, she turned in his arms. "Erik," she whispered reaching up for him at the same moment his arms wrapped more tightly around her.

Their lips met in a kiss that beseeched and possessed with a hunger that shook them, controlled them. A kiss of fervent exploration, a kiss of tender fire. Her palms pressed against his solid chest, sliding their way inside his shirt, wrapping around to the strong muscles of his back. It wasn't enough. She yearned to feel his heated skin against hers with no more barriers to keep them apart. Between hungry kisses, she tugged his shirt free from his cummerbund and dragged it off his shoulders.

He pulled away to rid himself of it, tearing it over his head and tossing it to the ground along with his cummerbund.

She stared in awe, watching his muscles ripple with the motions, her lips parting further. Dear God, he was so strong, so … virile. Separated from his warmth, a chill of earlier doubt beset Christine. He turned to her, desire dark in his eyes, but as he studied her face, a question came into them too. He clasped her shoulders, his touch gentle, as if sensing her sudden anxiety. She could find no voice.

_What if I disappoint you?_

_That is not possible._

_I am not experienced in the art of lovemaking; I have little knowledge of what it entails, except for what you have shown me. _Even as she spoke the words into his mind, she felt a flush rise against her cheeks at such a blunt admission.

His smile was tender. "My dearest Angel," he whispered, his fingertips lifting to cradle her jaw. "You think I can claim expertise? Yours are the only lips I have learned, yours the only skin I have caressed. And yours will be the only body I will worship forevermore, with my own. Together, we will teach each other, each of us master and student in this ultimate composition of our love."

His gentle words and the warm contact of his hands touched the essence of her soul, making Christine tremble with longing. His eyes promised what for months he'd denied them, and in their captivating green depths, she also witnessed the same tentative anticipation. Erik's reminder that this experience was also novel to him somehow reassured her. He had told her before, of course, but the vivid realization that he belonged to her, _only_ her, stunned her mind and intoxicated her senses. The strong desire to know him fully as her husband banished the lingering shadows of doubt.

She could no longer bear to be apart from him and ached to give herself to him in the only way she never had. Uncertain of what to do next, her unsteady fingers went to the lacings of her gown, but his hands lowered to enfold hers, stopping her.

She looked at him, curious.

"I have long dreamt of this moment." His eyes smoldered as he brought her hands to his lips and kissed each one, leaving a tingle of fire in their wake. "Savor each sensation, Mon Ange. Allow me the pleasure to give you all the delight you can contain."

Heat flushed her face and she barely nodded. Her heart pounding, her eyes never left his as he gave a slow pull to the lacing of her gown until it loosened, then pushed the ruffled silk the rest of the way off her shoulders. He bent his head and she inhaled a sharp gasp as his lips covered the skin he'd just bared in sweet caresses, his breath warm against her skin. The tip of his hot tongue formed a slow trail along the line of her shoulder to the soft curves above her gown that made her go weak inside. He dropped to his knees, pushing the gown down further, his mouth worshipping her bare flesh as he went, sending heat into regions she never knew existed, making her gasp and tremble with the desire she'd always felt for him. The cloth slid past her stomach and hips, until it fell in a whisper of silk around her ankles.

With his hands cradling her waist, he drew back slightly to look upon her, his eyes wide in awe, his lips softly parted. His all-consuming gaze traveled over every inch of her white, unveiled form.

"Oh, Christine …"

Another blaze licked through her at the untainted emotion and adoring promise contained in those three whispered syllables. Unlike the blush of discomfort she'd known when the gypsies earlier bathed her, the flame of boldness now ignited to life inside, encouraged by her husband's response that she did, indeed, please him well.

"You are more beautiful than I imagined," he said hoarsely, his eyes ablaze with green fire as they lifted, caught, and held hers.

Under his gaze, she felt his love, a tangible force, but standing before him as he knelt at her feet, much as Eve must have stood before Adam, she knew awkwardness too. She clutched his arms to bring him up to her, and reading her intent, he moved to stand.

"Erik, I need you to love me."

"That is all I ever wanted, all I've ever done."

"No." She stared at him, emboldened. "You fail to understand. I need to feel your skin against mine, need you to make me whole. I have waited so very long for this night."

Her candid words expressed her heart as she pressed her hands against his muscled chest, her fingertips curling in the soft hair. The pulse in his throat beat in mad cadence as she lifted herself up on her toes to press a kiss to the heated skin there then flicked out her tongue, as he'd done to her. Loving the taste of him, her eager mouth began the downward trail her fingers had taken by the brook. As he had done to her, her tongue swept over his flat nipple, gently grazing it between her teeth.

With a sharp gasp, he twined his fingers in the back of her hair while his other arm swept her into a desperate embrace. Ribbons of shock raced through her to feel her bare breasts crushed against the heat of his powerful torso, making her feel weak but at the same time gloriously alive.

"My love … _my wife._" He whispered the last two words as if he could not yet dare to believe them, and she knew then that he'd been shadowed by his own fears.

"Is this but another dream?" Emotion choked his voice. "Are you truly mine? I can scarcely believe our quest for a life together is complete. Tell me I'll not awaken to find this yet another elusive vision. Tell me, Christine! I could not bear it if it were so."

She pulled her head away from his shoulder to look into his eyes, darkened with longing, rimmed with tears. Moved by similar emotion, her words trembled as she did, and she lifted her hands to his face. "This is real, Mon Ange, not an illusion, not a dream. Those endless longings we both shared to become one have finally and truly become the beginnings of our reality." She brushed her lips against his. "Our quest has ended but our journey has only begun."

"Christine …" He kept her held tight against him as he pressed his mouth to hers. His hungry tongue pushed past her receptive lips, and eagerly she opened her mouth wider. The sweet wine of his kisses drugged her, filled her, making her want so much more, though she had yet to understand all of what that entailed. Tonight, he would teach her, and she couldn't help a little shiver of excitement at the unveiling of the mystery. Her arms twined around his neck as his large hands smoothed twin paths of fire under the fall of her hair and down her back, adding to the heat that enflamed her blood.

He broke the kiss and swept her up into his arms, tremors of desire racing through his muscles. Breathless, Christine buried her lips against his skin, tracing moist kisses to his ear, thrilling when he let out a hoarse groan. He carried her past the silk wall of hanging tapestries that enclosed their marriage bed.

"With all that I am, I give myself to you." Her unsteady words came as little more than a breath. She didn't wish anything to mar this idyllic night and silently begged his trust as she ran her fingertips up his smooth jaw until they barely rested at the edge of his mask. "Now I ask for the same in return. Let there be no more hiding, no more barriers between us, Mon Ange. Shut me out no longer." She waited, showing him she would go no further unless he consented to her request.

His eyes both reassured and ignited, but the untroubled smile he gave shook her to the core of her soul. With it, she knew he had relinquished to her all of his trust. With it, she retained full hope that theirs would be a bond lacking in nothing.

"No more hiding, my beloved. No more barriers."

Her heart light with the joy that filled it, Christine removed the mask, her eyes never leaving his, and let the obstacle fall to the ground. She smiled, at last taking in the full splendor of his unique face: the rough, scarred wildness, as untamed as he, and the refined planes of smooth perfection.

As he laid her among the satin pillows with care, she cradled his strong jaw in her hands, her song a sweet hungry sigh. "_Angel of Music, my King, my husband … now … at last … complete me._"

_I am your Angel of Music, _his song whispered into her mind and heart as he joined her on their bed. He covered her mouth with another intoxicating kiss before moving his lips to her throat.

_As I … forevermore … am yours ... _She gasped and rolled her eyes closed in delight, as his heated mouth and artist's hands laid absolute ownership to her body, worshipping her, exhilarating her, enticing her …

No further words were exchanged aloud or in silence as their passion ignited, demanding all; a steady flame that burned with ever-rising intensity. His body trembled as he gently suckled the firm peak of her breast. Her body answered in kind as she arched into him, his touch setting a rapid path of fire deep into her belly. As he had done when he pulled away her gown, he gave the same tender attention to her other breast, then moved even lower, his soft hair brushing her sensitized skin as he did.

With his fingers he stroked every part of her body that his mouth did not caress, intent on knowing every inch of her; a composer with a cherished new instrument he yearned endlessly to play. He groaned, his eyes falling shut in wonder at her exquisite perfection.

Never had he truly believed such bliss could be his, could be _theirs;_ once she finally made him see and perceive the truth of what he'd always wanted, that she did love and choose him, then fear had beset his heart that fate would rip away their shared dream. To know that the phenomenon of their union was actually happening - that she was his _wife _- made him desperate to know all of her at once; that, coupled with his desire of so many lonely years to make Christine his own, set off a tempest inside, making him wild and fervent in his advances.

The taut leash on his hunger for her snapped, his appetite insatiable. He required no experience to do what his hands and mouth had long craved. Frantic in his need, he created erotic moist paths along her trembling skin, eliciting from her sweet lips low, astonished sounds of pleasure, as at the same time he learned what excited her most.

He brushed the smooth skin of her hip with his warm tongue, his teeth nipping the flesh. Christine inhaled in shock as the fire grew even hotter and a raw, breathless hunger spiraled within her core. She wanted … she wanted … she didn't know what she wanted, except that he would never cease in his fiery onslaught of passion. As if answering her unspoken plea, his mouth trailed a path of flame across her quivering thigh, his large hands stroking sensuously along her hips and legs, and she whimpered yet again with a need she didn't understand.

His actions gentle but determined he moved her onto her side and stretched out behind her. Pressing in close, he curled his strong body into her soft one and explored the gentle slope of her shoulders, her sensitive nape, the sweet flesh of her back with his tongue, his teeth, his lips. His questing hand reached for her lush breast and squeezed, his fingers teasing the bud to ripen further. Giving a groan of pure lustful need, she pushed her hips back against his solid length and he growled low against her skin with the same frenzy of desire.

Still, he wanted more …

His tongue traced the curve of her spine while his hand caressed her stomach moving down to her soft curls. She drew an unsteady breath through her teeth. The sweet scent of her arousal almost drove him to madness as his lips blazed a course further downward, past her firm, smooth bottom, reaching her long, silken leg, while his fingertips traced feather-light trails along both. His mouth tasted the back of her thigh, firmly suckling the skin, further to the back of her knee. She let out a soft, raspy sigh, ending with a mewl of his name in urgent supplication. Barely able to restrain from taking her then, he quickly rid himself of the remainder of his clothes and gently rolled her over onto her back.

Her black velvet eyes, glassy with desire, widened with both shock and longing at the sight of his full nakedness, her flushed skin coloring a deeper rose as she stared at the strong evidence of his own need. She inhaled a little gasp of fear mixed with wonder, and he realized she now fully understood what it meant to become one.

"Christine …"

His breathing unsteady, he wanted to reassure her not to be afraid. But still hungry to learn all of her and knowing his desire would soon demand release, he impatiently slid his hands along her thighs, parting them, and pressed his mouth to the center of her damp curls. She let out a guttural cry unlike any he'd heard before and arched into him, all anxiety forgotten.

Panting for breath, Christine drowned in waves of heat, a swirling inferno her lover created and fast pulled her into as his warm lips sought out her deepest secrets, drinking from the well of her desire, and … Mon Dieu! … _his_ _tongue … _Her eyes fluttered closed as she moaned in dark pleasure. An agony and an ecstasy such as she'd never known made her body violently tremble, made her lean into him and move against him with an urgency beyond comprehension, until suddenly the earth vanished and she shattered apart in a thousand bright stars.

He moved over her then, his heated body covering hers, flesh against soaked flesh, petals clinging to skin. In the midst of the pleasure she felt the pain, as his hard majesty met the resistance of her tender maidenhead. Her body involuntarily tightened at the immense size of him, but her return to unease was not enough to quench her desperate need for his total possession.

"Christine?" he whispered, smoothing her damp hair from her brow, his face beautiful in its concern. "I do not wish to hurt you, but there is no other way."

She anxiously nodded, squeezing her eyes shut and wordlessly pulling him closer, welcoming the pain if it meant finally she would have all of him.

Groaning, the need to claim her beyond what he could bear any longer, Erik plunged deep between her tight walls that stretched wide to receive him, quickly tearing away the final barrier, while catching her sharp cry in his tender kiss.

Tears leaked from her eyes, of joy and of pain: the incredible fullness of her beloved inside bringing both. He slid his mouth from hers suddenly and bowed his forehead to her shoulder. And she knew in that moment she would always be in awe of this complicated, exciting man, who possessed both a passionate and fiery nature and a gentle and sensitive soul.

She cradled his head and pulled it back to look at him, all the love she felt for her Angel, now her husband, overflowing from her heart and spilling into every part of her being. Gently she brushed away the trails of moisture that wet the scarred flesh and the flawless beneath his passion-glazed eyes, running her thumbs to his temples.

"It's all right." Her voice trembled, little more than a breath, and she gave a soft nod. "It's all right."

He stared at her intently, his sorrow at hurting her giving way to the same wondering jubilation that filled her heart at their long coveted union; and he gave a hoarse little laugh of awed disbelief, much as he'd done when she first kissed him what seemed an eternity ago, five levels below the opera house. Just as on that night, she now looked at his beautiful mouth and answered him with a tremulous smile, her eyes then lifting to meet his.

"At last," she whispered, "I belong to you. Utterly and completely. I am yours, Erik."

Something wild and feral darkened his eyes at her throaty avowal, making her breath catch with desire, as the sharp pain at last faded away and the urgent need was reborn.

"Mine," he growled low against her neck near her ear, nipping at the skin there with his teeth and making her gasp in shocked delight. And then, more soothingly, like a song, "_Mon Amour … Mon Ange … Ma Reine … Ma Christine …_"

His rhythm deep and sensual, he purred each endearment with each stroke as he began slowly to move inside her, rendering her breathless, instantly taking her to an even higher realm of profound pleasure, of unashamed need … and soon teaching her the full extent of rapture.

Together, they composed an unwritten symphony for one another alone; a passionate melody they would learn to the last expressed note and perform without end.

The stars followed their courses in the universe. The moon changed the tides of the oceans. While inside a small tent in Seville, the two halves of Music at last became whole. Beyond anything once whispered below the earth, beyond any song that had been cried unto the heavens, enclosed within their small world they discovered one magical, shared voice in their fulfilled destiny to love one another.

And in this secret knowledge, two souls became forever bound ... yet at the same time were never more freed.

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~*Finis*~

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**xXx**

**A/N: Thank you so much for your reviews, your encouragement and your support in all this. :) Also, if you'd like to see a manip I made of this last scene, please check out my profile.**

***Ma Reine- My Queen; Mon Amour- My Love (Thanks to Canna for pointing out the correct usage of the French! :))  
**

**The sequel to this story, "The Treasure" is in the process of being posted now- but please be warned, it is M rated, for explicit sex and also for other adult themes. It takes up the morning after this chapter.**

**If you should read this after I've finished, I would still love to hear from you and what you think, and thank you in advance for taking the time to do so.**

**Adieu, dear readers, it has been a most splendid affair! **


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